Which author[s] am I like?

I took a little bit of The Owners Volume I : Alone and input it into this analysing tool and according to this I write like H.P. Lovecraft.

This was the section I used :

The harsh sunlight, which pierced the window in its strong and direct glare, was now mellowed and softened in the burnished reflections of the polished wooden walls. The knots and imperfections of the wood resembling tiny worlds of intricacies, too complex to be fully understood.

In passing, he glanced through the window to find the view as breathtakingly beautiful as ever. An amazing variety of trees stood like proud sentinels around a spectacular natural lake. Trees stretched on into infinity in every direction – luscious light-green foliage appearing to vie with emerald and jade for the eye’s attention. Yet the trees also seemed to be collaborating with one another, joining forces in an attempt to outdo the drama of the brilliant blue sky reflected in the shimmering perfection of the silvery lake.

This scene, with its myriad colours and composition was so intense and so contrastingly stunning, it almost made San’s eyes hurt. Each tree was unique, either in size or shape or shade to its neighbour, just as the houses lodged within the heart of the tree, sitting snug amongst its highest branches were different. There were large tree houses and small ones, round ones and rectangular ones and even some which didn’t fit any one particular shape but instead were a weird blend of curves and angles.

Similarly the colours of the houses were all different. No, actually he thought, that’s not true. The colour was all the same – green – it was the sheer variety of shades of green which made them seem so dramatically different. Yet what struck San at that precise moment, was how each tree house conformed to and in fact complimented, the size and shape of the tree it was lodged in. It was almost as if each house had merged and blended with the branches to become a living part of its tree.  


Here it is http://iwl.me/s/147eabd8


Then I took this except from The Owners Volume III : Dark Side of The Sun and performed the same analysis :

Jack stepped into the darkness. Even in the seconds that his eyes took to adjust to the lack of light, he was aware that he stood next to Seth once more. There was a musty smell in the room. Dank and with the sharp acrid stench of urine, it was all he could do not to heave. Whoever was in the building had clearly given up all pretence of civilisation.

And they were aware of his and Seth’s presence. There was a vague sound of susurration, as if the person was making soft whisperings to themselves or another but it was too indistinct for him to make out its source or what was said.

“Step back slowly. Do not turn around,” Seth told him without moving.

“Why?” He knew he should probably just do as Seth suggested but having come this far, he wanted to know what they had found.

The susurration seemed to increase in response to his words, as if the person or persons were becoming agitated at the thought of them leaving. “This is why,” Seth slowly pulled a torch from his pocket and flicking it on, levelled it at the darkest corner of the room.

Hair tangled and knotted, what was left of the scalp hung down in front of the skeleton’s face. Whilst not strictly a skeleton, it was how Jack had to think of the body which was even now being hungrily devoured by the biggest pack of coyotes Jack had ever seen.  Bigger than the average dog, their normally lean bodies seemed fuller and longer than normal.


And this was the analysis  http://iwl.me/s/147eabd8



So far, so consistent. Now the biggie. What happened when I put in a section from Split Decision?

Here is the excerpt I used :

The atmosphere in the car was suddenly thick with sexual tension. I could feel all of them straining to hear my answer, listening with their groins rather than their brains.

A primitive fear coursed through me riding a tidal wave of doom. There was no right answer here, only a series of wrong answers. My heart pounded at the steel cage it was entrapped within, banged itself into the padded walls around it and no-one heard it scream. No-one but me. Whatever I answered, I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t! It was a circular route to Hell.

And the result? This time I wrote like James Joyce apparently!  http://iwl.me/s/d760c1b4



Then this excerpt from my current work in progress, The Plan :


Suzie regarded her companion with wide eyes. None of her friends spoke like this, it was not the type of conversation she was used to having but she liked the honesty of it, the cut and dried truthfulness.

And you will never guess who came out this time! Leo Tolstoy!

And the proof is here  http://iwl.me/s/698342ba

Does that mean I am split personality???

[I wonder what would have happened if I had cut and pasted all the different excerpts into one analysis...perhaps I would have blown the software to smithereens!]

I gave up running the analysis on the other books I have written. They are all diverse - just like me.

So who do I write like? Well I write like me, of course!

Happy Reading. 

What am I like?

Did I actually tell you what my books were like? Somehow in all the madness, I'm not sure I ever really did. So here it is:-

Split Decision is a thriller about the choice a girl has to make which might have devastating consequences, whilst Ascension is a dystopian thriller. Think The Hunger Games without the fighting.

The Owners series is a blend of Avatar, The Planet of the Apes, and 2012 ... where dystopia meets utopia, with a tiny fraction of The Waking Dead [minus the zombies] thrown in for good measure.

Of course it's not really like any of the above in their entirety but it does have elements of them all. It is set in a world where the relationships between the characters are similar to those in Avatar - there is a mutual bond of love and respect, there is a life/world changing event which creates mayhem and upheaval as in 2012 and then there is the struggle for life after this event, hence The Walking Dead.

So read one of my books today...it will set your imagination on fire!


Happy reading.

Benidorm revisited...

In light of the fact that I have just booked a holiday to Spain, I thought I'd remind you of what happened the last time I was there.

So make a drink then settle yourself down for a read...

I have just returned from a holiday in Spain. Am I calmer after the break, more relaxed, less wound like a coiled spring? Probably not. For the truth is that the moment you are home, yes, literally that moment, it becomes clear how much you have to do just to get back on track with everyday life. All the lounging about and dipping into sun-dappled pools is nothing more than a memory and even that seems distant.

Add to this the fact that there were elements of pure fiasco during the holiday and I have to wonder if all the frantic organising was even worth it.

It certainly started with an adventure. I had pre-booked [and pre-paid] airport parking as that seemed like a sensible thing to do. But as I approached Birmingham Airport it became clear that Car Park 7 had no road signs leading to it, unlike numbers 1-6.

Not owning a sat. nav. anymore, [if you want the ludicrous story of how that was lost, you will have to go back to a blog post from about a year ago] I resorted to reading the directions I had printed out. Let’s just say I drove around the same island five times, each time taking a different exit, only to return defeated.

By this time my blood pressure was up, the kids in the back were starting to ask when the plane took off and would we be on it, and I was still none the wiser.

The time was fast approaching 5am when we were due to check in for our flight, and everywhere seemed deserted. There was no one around to even ask where I should have been heading.

In desperation, I pulled in to Car Park 1 and pressed the button on the intercom for assistance. I explained that I was lost and needed help to find Car Park 7. Unfortunately the disembodied voice didn’t seem to know where that was either! There followed an interminably long wait whilst he consulted a map and finally delivered the sage advice that I should, “Go back to the roundabout and pick up the signs for number 7.”

Defeated, I had to reverse the car out of the one-way system, invoking incredulous stares from the other motorists and head back to the same island I had already been around five times!

Since most of them led to other car parks, I chose the one route which didn’t and followed it for some time in the hope that it would be right. Guess what? I still didn’t find the car park I needed. I returned to the original roundabout. The time was 5:30am and I was in a cold sweat.

This time I pulled into car Park 5 and up to the intercom barrier. I pressed the button and waited. “Look I’m lost. I have paid for Car Park 7 but I can’t find it. I have been around and around… and if you don’t help me I am going to miss my flight and …”

I was cut off by a bored voice. “Oh, it’s you again. Didn’t you find it then?” Now don’t ask me why it never occurred to me that it would be the same man from Car Park 1, but it didn’t. Then to have him state the blatantly obvious was almost too much for me. I felt steam coming out of my ears. Very slowly, one vertebrae at a time, I felt myself turn towards the little camera that regarded me so intrusively. Behind my eyes I saw an image of how I must appear to him and I sharpened my gaze.

Before I could say anything I heard him clear his throat and say anxiously, “Wait there. I will get a supervisor to direct you.”

Wait there? Where did he think I was going to go? Round and round the roundabout on a pleasure jaunt, whirling suitcases and children from the car window in wild abandonment, in the hope that some of them would land close to the terminal and might actually make it to the plane?

Finally a supervisor arrived. It took only a short conversation for him to see that by now directions were going to be lost on me. He opened up the barrier and let me park, for which I will be eternally grateful.

By the time we got to the duty free shops, all my previous cares had been forgotten. Almost. Gleefully, my ten year old daughter and I sampled the perfumes and the make-up, drawing on our hands thick lines of every colour available.

Now lots of cosmetics claim to be waterproof… but few actually are. In the toilets, I lathered up my hands and worked at the smears of green and blue and red, rubbing and scraping at my skin. The make-up refused to dissolve and wash away but it did move, smearing itself over both hands, so that it looked like I had been bare-knuckle boxing with Mike Tyson. Again and again I washed my hands, each time more frantically than before, cursing under my breath so that I must have looked more than a little like a modern-day Lady Macbeth. All that was needed was for me to shriek, “Out, damned spot!” and I might even have got an Oscar.

So as usual we ended up making a frenzied dash for the plane, with me trying in vain to hide my monstrous looking hands from everyone. I took solace in the family pack of chocolate raisins I had bought for the journey, doling them out for myself and the children.

It was a turbulent flight, particularly noticeable when on one jolt, I dropped several of the sweets and they clattered softly to the floor. Embarrassed, I tried to pick them up and dispose of them – no mean feat when the seating space seems to have been modelled on the dimensions of mankind from the 1950s, when men were trim and women had waists, but I got most of them up.

It was only when I uncontorted myself that I discovered the people across the aisle were watching me in fascination. It seemed they thought I was so panicked about the turbulence that I had adopted the safety ‘brace’ position.

Safely ensconced in my seat once more, I hoped that I had finished providing them with free entertainment. But I’m afraid the show was not yet over. It was only when I stood up to go to the toilet that I realised not all of the chocolate treats had fallen to the floor. Some had slipped onto my seat, becoming effectively squashed and melted under me.

Do you have any idea what a few squashed chocolate buttons and raisins look like when congealed to the seat of your jeans? Mortified, I blazed a trail to the toilets, cheeks crimson and with the sound of my children’s guffaws still ringing in my ears. I may never live that memory down.

I had booked a hotel in Benidorm because of the dates we needed to have and the price I was happy to pay, added to the fact that I wanted a hotel which was close to the beach and which offered nightly entertainment. Now at this point are you all shaking your heads? I thought so.

And to be honest Benidorm was everything people say it is. But it is also beautiful, with long sandy beaches where the sea is both warm and crystal clear and fish swim unafraid around your toes.

Cloistered within the walls of our hotel by night, there was none of the anti-social behaviour that might have been acted out on the streets and many clubs and bars of the town, but there was still that flavoursome sense of excitement, that in the warm air, scented with exotic flowers and coconut suntan lotion, anything might happen…

I even managed to convince myself that I could look as enticing as Halle Berry famously coming out of the sea in one of the James Bond movies, so I tried it. Hair slicked back by the tide, bikini rucked up to cover my most wobbliest of bits, I emerged, white and short limbed from the foamy waves.

The film score which was playing in my head, stuttered and died as I caught my big toe on a rock concealed under the water. Pain shot up my foot and I stumbled, feet flailing under the water, trying to find purchase and finding only the rock. Again. I went down like a lead balloon, hair straggling over my face and inhaling a great lungful of salt water.

But this holiday also provided a number of firsts for me. I had never taken the children abroad on my own before and it was a bitter-sweet experience. I sat alone watching the nightly entertainment, my teenage son off messaging his friends on Facebook and my daughter playing with new friends, and although the shows were on the whole very good, I felt I cut a rather pathetic figure, there on my own. This was highlighted during one of the acts, when a comedian picked on me as being clearly alone in a swarm of huge family groups and asked what my name was, where I was from and whether I was married or not.

Reluctantly giving the answers, I was dismayed to be asked more; how old was I and did I have children? Giving the answers as I did, starkly and without embellishment, I almost felt like I was on a game show dating site:- ‘And now here’s Carmen, all the way from the Midlands, give her a cheer! Carmen is single, 48 and has three children!’

So when the Adele tribute singer came on, perhaps you will forgive me for shedding a quiet, surreptitious tear at my aloneness.

In general though, the entertainment was really good and my thanks go out to JJ Jones who was the Neil Diamond Tribute and to Andy, the Rod Stewart tribute, who were both photographed with my newest novel, Split Decision. [See earlier posts]

In particular I must mention the fact that JJ Jones donates all proceeds from the sale of his CDs to a charity in remembrance of his daughter.

But my most enduring memories of this holiday? Well apart from the looks of purest joy on the faces of my children, it would have to be sitting on the balcony with the strains of Spanish music played on an acoustic guitar, filtering up from below. The music seemed to play with the noise of the passing traffic like a cat with a mouse, sometimes feigning passivity, at other times being assertive, taking control and bending the other noise to its will.

Spain is the land of my grandfather, the origin of my name and so perhaps it is a part of me in a way that I almost can’t define. Looking at my children, I now think it may well be a part of them too.

Editing!

Editing today...

The toilets are empty ,as I knew they would be. I find the cleanest cubicle and lock the door. For a long time I stare at the razor but do nothing with it. I am not afraid. Quite the opposite. I am excited. The anticipation of the calm serenity which I know will overcome me when I make a cut, causes my hands to shake with excitement.

I hold the blade up towards the electric strip lights. The bulbs are covered so the metal doesn’t gleam as much as it does at home, but it sparkles enough to entice me to turn it around and around in my hands.

I want to cut so badly. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. Soon I can’t stand it any longer; the wait, the heady anticipation. I bare my skin and make a cut on my upper thigh, the one I’ve already marked. Blood wells and flows and I mop it up and flush the evidence of bloodied tissue away, watching it swirl around the white porcelain bowl like an unfurling flag.

It’s my flag. My banner. My proclamation that I still exist. Whether I want to or not.

Happy reading!

Sleep, perchance to dream...

I am sleep deprived. Seriously sleep deprived. During the last week I have had on average two and a half hours of sleep per night. I am like the walking dead.

And yet the creative side of my brain refuses to quit. What little sleep I do get is peppered with dreams, and not strange and near hallucinogenic ones, but indeed lucid, coherent and cohesive, fully-joined up dreams. A few of them have been exciting enough for me to have jotted them down in my 'ideas for future novels' book.

I can barely string a sentence together I'm so tired, and on more than one occasion I have attempted to make coffee without first boiling the water...and yet the creative side of my brain is awash with ideas. Now if only I could sleep enough to get the energy to start writing some of them up...

In the meantime, why don't you take a look at some of those I have already written, just click on the link to Amazon on the right.

Happy reading!

Here is a link to a new magazine by a good friend of mine, Richard Merli. I hope you enjoy it.

http://files.octoberhillmagazine.com/October%20Hill%20Spring%202017.pdf?lipi=urn%3Ali%3Apage%3Ad_flagship3_messaging%3BVEGukgaXS%2Bq2u11x14P0kw%3D%3D


Happy reading!

Edit. Cut, spice and dice!

Someone asked me recently if my own experiences filter into my books.

Well here is the bit I'm currently editing. I'll let you make your own decision.

I wake up in darkness. The bedside clock says 4am. It’s too early to get up and possibly too close to morning to be able to get easily back to sleep. I lie on my back and look at the ceiling.

It’s completely flat, unlike the ceiling of the bedroom I had before, which was actually a loft conversion. Our old house had five bedrooms, four on the first floor and mine in the loft.

Dad used to call it my Penthouse Suite. I loved that room. The bedroom I’d had before the loft was converted was nice enough, but nothing compared to the space and views over the neighborhood offered by the newest room at the top of the house.

The room had originally been intended as a study for Dad but it was far too big for that. Then it was suggested that it could be a family room, but the narrow staircase and the fact that it was two full flights of stairs from the kitchen, made that idea rather an impracticality. Besides, once I’d seen it, I’d set my heart on having it as a bedroom.

I miss the contours of that ceiling, the way the shadows would collect in some corners, changing the play of the sunlight through the windows, making the walls look lighter or darker in some places than others…

Shadow – the word brings with it a physical pain. Shadow is missing from my life now and always will be. I wish now that he’d had any other name than that – wish that he hadn’t had a name that will crop up in innocent conversations and inner ramblings and take me unawares all over again. Time and time again.

It’s the hurt that keeps on giving.

For a list [and view ] of books currently available, click on the links to Amazon, Barnes and Noble etc., on the right.

Editing today

Today I am editing my latest book. Here's where I am currently at.

“Eat your dinner, Charlie,” Mum says tightly and I look up to find my little brother looking at me strangely.

“You’re different Scarley.” He hasn’t called me that in years. It’s a cast off from his younger days and I wonder if he actually chose to use it now for some reason, or if it came out unbidden.

“No, I’m not,” I say. But he’s right, I am. How can I not be? Aren’t all of us changed in some way by what we’ve been through? And isn’t it just and right that I should be changed the most? After what I did?

“Yes, you are,” he insists.

“Charlie that’s enough,” Mum warns and he goes back to eating his dinner but keeping his eyes on me.

I feel bad that he got told off. “You wanna match on the Playstation later?” I ask.

“We don’t have one anymore…” he says.

“Oh… I forgot.” And I genuinely had for a moment.  “Well we could watch TV together, what do you think?”

“I guess.” He’s unenthusiastic.

 I try to make it up to him, everything that he’s lost. “I’ll let you chose what to watch.”

“Okay.” But his face hasn’t changed. There’s no excitement there. I berate myself for thinking that the situation could be so easily fixed. Just because Charlie’s only nine doesn’t make his pain any less than mine, his grief any less infinite.

Happy holiday reading!

Brave new Glasgow?

When I was eighteen I left Glasgow for London. It wasn't that I thought the streets in London were paved with gold, but that I thought that city was rich with opportunities I wouldn't find in Glasgow.

Back then in 1984, Glasgow was a dark city. I don't mean that in a symbolic, euphemistic way. I mean it literally. The buildings were black, the streets a dark grey, the skies were grey... hell, even the faces of the people were grey.

The brash gaiety of the decade's pubs, full of themes like 'Alice in Wonderland' and 'Berlin before World War II' [and I kid you not - these were real themes in the pubs at the time] where the bar staff dressed in character, failed to raise my optimism once the final drink had been drunk and I stepped out once more into the harsh, drab reality of the city.

But in the intervening years between then and now, Glasgow has undergone a slow metamorphosis... so subtle to begin with that I almost didn't notice. One by one the old stone buildings have been cleaned of grime [sand-blasted is my best guess] to reveal the real colour of the stone below - red sandstone, rich vanilla or palest cream stone blocks, set together with precision.

And like many transformations, over time things have gathered momentum. One clean building becomes two - notable but still not remarkable - and then it's three, becoming eventually a whole street. Then the dilapidated buildings which were ill-conceived back in their heyday of the 1970's, and certainly not fit for modern purposes, start to disappear. Like the cleaning, it happens one at a time, barely noticeable, not all that significant...

So during every visit I'd look around and note the changes. Yet nothing prepared me for what I found on my most recent visit.

Like every transformation that is done piecemeal, the full effect is never realised until the project is almost completed. It is then that the process appears to speed up, and an overall effect is given. But with a project the scale and size of Glasgow, it would appear that the whole is much, much greater than the sum of its parts.

Because now Glasgow is beautiful. I mean really beautiful. Not the fading beauty of a distant past, but the shining beauty of a vibrant metropolis, full of glitz, glamour, and sex-appeal. Everywhere there are up-market restaurants, designer shops, snazzy signage on the buildings and liveried doormen.

Gone are all the awful 1970's and '80's buildings, and in their place stand fine pieces of modern architecture, in fantastic juxtaposition with the very best of the Victorian buildings. It really is a sight to behold, because each lends the other something it could not otherwise have.

It reminded me a little of an image of a wise old granddad holding the hand of his young grandchild standing at his side. Here was the steadfastness of age, the wisdom and the sure-footedness of knowledge garnered though time-worn experience; and the vibrancy of youth, the innocence and eagerness and freshness of a life not yet fully lived.

It took my breath away. And I wanted to find the official, whoever he or she was, who had the good sense and courage not to just demolish everything, but to keep all the great old structures and build a new Glasgow around and through them, involving them in the new builds in an almost organic, symbiotic way.

Perhaps even more surprisingly, there are beautiful murals everywhere. Not abstract shapes and exaggerated colours and angles which revolt the eye, but masterful, meaningful pictures full of love and hope for a better future, artfully crafted with skill and finesse.

I almost couldn't believe that this was the old drab city I used to live and work in. And the people walk about for the most part oblivious of the beauty around them. I wanted to run up to them, to shake them and make them look up at the gargoyles, the finials, the carvings and mouldings - make them realise that here were things of lasting beauty and worthy of praise. But for the most part their eyes were fixed on the Gucci handbags and Prada offerings on display in the shop windows.

But the thing which really marred my total optimism for Glasgow's future, was the number of homeless people huddled in doorways, cardboard boxes and dirty, stained sleeping bags pulled around them. The Glasgow of my time didn't have this. Perhaps one or two but certainly never the volume of current Glasgow. I think it might be even more than would be found upon the streets of London.

Certainly it appears that Glasgow has a new-found wealth... but what is also clear is that the divide between the 'haves' and the 'have-nots' is wider than ever. And by 'have-nots' I'm not taking about the people who can't quite afford the full Sky TV bundle, I'm talking about the real 'poor' - the ones who don't even have a roof over their heads.

Now don't worry, I'm not going to get all political on you, I'll leave that to those who are better qualified. But what I will say, is that I was more than a little shocked.

So Glasgow, perhaps you need to start revamping your indigenous population too, before all those people in their shiny new Christian Louboutin shoes fall over them and twist an ankle!

Happy reading!

 

Sisters are doing it [okay not entirely) for themselves.

Remember how I bought the house I'm currently living in, almost two years ago? And how filled with enthusiasm I was about renovating it?

Yes. Well... What can I say? Almost two years on and the shine has gone off that idea. Ever-so-slightly. Don't get me wrong, I'm still doing things to it, but at a much slower pace. Partly because there is so little other than decorating [and writing novels] that I can do well.

So it was with much joy that I signed up for the free Ladies Night at my local DIY store. Now from the off I knew this wasn't going to be your average Ladies Night. Here the only stripper on offer would be of the wallpaper or paint variety, and that suited me just fine.

Because Broad Street DIY in Bromsgrove promised to show me how to drill [straight] holes and how to make a neat silicone sealant line. It was the latter that really appealed, because when I tried to do this before, it looked like I was icing the bath. The stuff was everywhere. Literally everywhere. On the bath, the floor, me, the dogs...

On top of all this, Broad Street were making it a social event with beverages, gourmet sandwiches, snacks, scones and cakes that neither my daughter nor I even tried to resist.

I watched a demonstration on tiling, I was tutored on how to silicone [neatly] and I was instructed on the use of all the best tools for the job.

And that wasn't all. I was given a free ticket for a prize draw and a goodie bag at the end of the night.

Like two kids, as soon as we were home, my daughter and I pulled out the contents of the goodie bag, which included a full size tape measure and a variety of trial sized products. So whilst my daughter made off with a lollipop, I set about measuring everything in the kitchen  - just because I could.

So whilst I don't think I'm quite up to retiling the bathroom just yet, I'll certainly be stepping up to the silicone challenge. Besides with my Scottish/Latin temperament it's probably the only gun I'll ever be allowed to get my hands on!

Move over Carole Smilie - here I come.

With special thanks to Broad Street DIY, Broad Street, Bromsgrove. http://www.broadstreetdiy.co.uk/

It's hotting up!

Whatever he sees in my face seems to please him, and he bends his face closer to mine. For a long moment I think that he will kiss me. Here, in front of all of his friends. But at the last second he moves his lips to my ear, whispering so that only I can hear.

“We’re gonna have some fun, you and me,” he promises and my heart thuds its response.

Taken from the latest chapter of the book I'm currently writing and things are getting HOT. I wish I could make her turn and run away from this monster, but then again, there wouldn't be a book to write if I did!

Happy Reading!

Still happening...

This is a post I wrote some time ago. Unfortunately the situation remains unchanged.

Too much far too soon.

I read something in the Huffington Post the other day which reflected exactly how I felt.

Apparently a father of a young daughter, who just also happened to be a Reverend, wrote an open letter to a well-known underwear brand, asking that they reconsider their plans to produce and sell lacy, slogan emblazoned underwear to young(ish) children.

Now I use the word children here both carefully and well considered.

By the laws of this country and most other progressive ones, minors are considered to be 'children' until at least the age of sixteen if not much older. This means that certain things, acts and products are prohibited to them. And this is done with good reason.

I know we all love our children and want them to be happy, stylish and feel that they fit in with their peers...but let's get real here. Do you really think that emblazoning a pair of lacy, racy thong pants with the slogan "feeling lucky?" is the way to do it? Or allowing our teens to be wearing such things?

No! The sentiments exposed there are both too jocular by nature with a semi-sophisticated self-deprecation and at once too mocking to emulate the true way that teens feel about the very idea of sexual attraction.

Think back to your own early teens if you will. Were you really so sure of your own attractiveness that you could wear these pants with no self-effacement, no modesty? If you are truthful, I think you will agree with me that the answer is no.

These slogans are made up by [and any teens reading this, I want you to take note] fat, balding old men who sit behind desks dreaming lasciviously of young girls. Be in no doubt about that.

Girls, these pants are not grown up, they are not sexy...they were designed by dirty old men who dream of you wearing them. Please, please do not buy them! And mothers and fathers out there - please help your children to see what is happening. We still live in a world where men like Garry Glitter and Jimmy Saville are reviled - do not let that ever change. This type of underwear is designed to pander to that very element of society...to take innocence and corrupt it as early as possible!

For all our sakes, get this mini-porn lingerie back where it belongs, on the cutting room floor.

News update

I have just received word that my books will be available through Microsoft's new Digital Bookstore however, should there be a blip with this, as so often happens with new technology, please revert back to the other sales channels.

My latest works are coming along well. Currently I am writing another novel and also a series of animated scripts.

Here is an excerpt of today's chapter from the novel:-

I am a flower, a set of unopened petals which he unfurls with magnificent skill. The question of how and with whom he previously acquired that skill strikes at my heart for a nano-second, but I ignore it. He’s with me now. And that’s all that matters.

I would imagine you can see where that's going...

My other news is very mixed. My original publisher, P'kaboo has become the victim of a terrible tragedy. It's not my place to discuss the private matters of anyone else, so I won't. But please don't be discouraged from purchasing any of the P'kaboo books, either my own or any other author's. I promise you, you'll enjoy them. To those of you who are aware of the situation, thank you for your patience.

Here is the link on Amazon, as the more direct Publisher's Bookshop is currently suspended.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=p'kaboo+publisher&rh=n%3A266239%2Ck%3Ap'kaboo+publisher

I'm also including the link to my other publisher's blog, as they often have much more interesting things than me, to report on.

http://www.uncialpress.com/blog/

As I always say to people - I am the most average person you could meet. But my characters are exceptional and the stories they have to tell are riveting. If you don't believe me, try me.

Until then, happy reading!

Matilda - The Owners, Volume VII: Hunter's Moon

A little peek at Matilda...

Careful you don't look too long though, for she is a feisty one!


Excerpt from The Owners, Volume VII: Hunter's Moon.

Matilda awoke before the others. Taylor lay beside her, his face partially obscured by the arm he had thrown over his eyes to block out the rising sun. Part of her longed to move his arm and gaze at the face she had known so long and so well but her resolve would not let her do so. She had taken on the role as leader of this hunting party and if it killed her, she would neither ask for his support nor subordinate herself to him. 

She owed it to their people to be strong and more than that, she owed it to the little child, Verity, who might already be dead.

Did I cling to her because I have no children of my own? It was a fair question and one she wasn’t entirely sure she could answer. Would I have felt differently if I had had a brood of my own children, clinging to my shirttails like all the other women? she wondered. Either way, does it really matter? Things were how they were, after all. She rose quietly, moving with a catlike grace, unwilling to wake the others until she was no longer sharing a space with Taylor.

On her feet, she circled the group. Everyone slept deeply and she was surprised into a revelation as she bent to shake them awake, one at a time.

“We could have been attacked and killed in our sleep, slaughtered without us even knowing we were in danger,” she said, once she had their full attention.

Taylor sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Well we weren’t. And I think that’s a little unlikely…”

Matilda didn’t give him time to finish. “Why not? You think that monster is afraid of us? After he snatched a little child right out from under our noses and left without even a scratch? Oh yes, he must be very afraid!” She heard the sarcasm in her own voice but was unable to reign it in.

She saw Taylor’s eyes widen in surprise and she instinctively knew it was not from either her words or her tone of voice but the way the criticism was directed straight at him.

“He was too high too fast for the arrows to reach,” he said simply.

“I know,” she agreed, hoping that he understood her frustration. They had been speaking as if there were only the two of them in the conversation, only the two of them standing there, with nothing and no-one else around for miles. Now she turned so that her words addressed them all, equally.

“From now on, we post a guard. If we do somehow manage to find him, the battle has to be on our terms, at a time and place of our choosing, not his.”

She was right, and they all knew it. Enough had been said, there was no point in pressing the issue. She bent and began to pack up their meagre camp.

If you would like to find out more, then follow the link on the right to find the first volumes in this epic tale

Happy Reading!

Latest chapter

Taken from my newest book:-

I neither hold my head up nor down as I walk. Why should I care what anyone thinks of me, when I have no love for myself? But as I reach the school, that huge architectural dream of glass and steel, I hesitate. These gates, this building – all of it – are from another time, another version of me. I force myself to enter the confines of the school. Make my way up the corridor and to my locker. The original key I had is gone, lost in the fire, but someone must have issued me with a new one and given it to Mum, because it was on my bedside table waiting for me.

The key slides easily into the lock as if it was the original but I know it isn’t, and the door springs open. Inside is stuff that was once mine; an old fluffy bear that someone gave me on Valentine’s Day two years ago, a packet of half eaten mints, a hairbrush, pink lip-gloss, an old phone cover and one woollen glove. I stick my bag on the empty shelf, sweep everything else into my hands and take them to the bin. I watch them slide from me to the abandonment of the black plastic receptacle. They are from the time of the old Scarlett and she no longer exists.

I return to the locker, remove my bag and lock it, even though it’s empty. If I leave it open someone might actually put something inside, and then it won’t be the empty vessel it should be. Then it won’t reflect the new me.

I hope you like my little snippets of what I'm currently writing. For a book that I've already brought out with my publishers, see the list to your right. There's also a whole page on reviews.

Happy Reading!

But you see, you do already know me...

Think you've never really read anything I've written? I'm willing to bet that you're wrong... because I'm the hidden face behind lots of articles and advertising copy in a variety of places, many of which would surprise you.

So if you haven't done so already, now that you've discovered you know me so well, it's time to pick up one of my books.

Happy Reading!

A dog called Shadow

Here's an excerpt from the chapter I'm currently writing. The dog has been named Shadow in memory of a real dog I once had and in respect to all the dogs I have loved over the years.

PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS EXCERPT MAY BE UPSETTING

There’s only silence from behind the door and I wonder if she’s gone.

“They said at the hospital we could go for family counselling. Do you think that might help, Scarlett?” she asks quietly from the other side of the door.

“Yes, why not?” Even though she can’t see me, I shrug. “Why don’t we all go and sit in some psychiatrist’s office and tell him about how we heard our dog howling in agony as his fur was scorched from his skin. Why don’t we tell the nice doctors how Shadow howled until his throat was burned, how we could hear him, but we couldn’t get to him, couldn’t save him…  about how loyal he was. He wouldn’t have left us to burn like we left him.”

I can hear my mother openly crying now but still I lash at her with my words. Because just like the wounds I made last night, these cuts help my pain too.

A little bit more of the newest book

Well the new book is well underway, and set to be one of the darkest I have written. This story has been waiting a few years inside of me until it was it's time to come out. I hope you like how it's unfolding:-

I’ve been gone only days from my family, cooped up in the hospital whilst they were all moved into this temporary accommodation and yet it’s like we are strangers, actors put together by a director to portray a normal family. Not that there’s anything remotely normal about this.

“I want to go back to school tomorrow.” The words which leave my mouth surprise me as much as they do her. Somehow the thought bypassed my conscious mind, going straight from my subconscious to my lips.

“But you’ve only just come out of hospital.” That hand reaches for the glass once more, finds it already drained and hovers mid-air, like a little lost bird. I want to catch it, hold it, dip it in the pot of bubbling bolognaise – anything to get a reaction from her that feels just the tiniest bit real.

Happy Reading!

An Exciting New Book

Oh it's a good start to the day...

I have just started to write a story that's been rattling around my brain for about three years. It's going to be a dark one!

Here's the very first paragraph:-

I sit on the hospital bed and wait for them to come for me. The smell of disinfectant is overpowering. It’s too clean, too sterile, as if it intends to wipe out every living thing from the face of the earth. Perhaps it should start with me.

There’s nothing here to look at except the other patients. I try to avoid looking at them, not because it’s rude to stare, but because I don’t want their attention returned to me.

Happy Reading!

Who doesn't like cake?

Come for "Cake with Carmen", a special afternoon of discussing plots and how I write. - Central Library, West Bromwich, 1.30, Thursday March 30th.

I hope to see you there.