A new review.

I'm hoping that book reviews are like buses... none for ages and then they all come at once!

Because another review for Split Decision has just been posted to Amazon.

Awarded a 5* rating and deemed a 'must-read', here's what the reviewer had to say.

"Read this book over two nights. Well written, the characters drew me in - sent me back to my teenage years - the insecurities of growing up! It made uncomfortable reading in parts, simply because it was realistic and gritty. Will definitely read more books written by this author 5*"

Thanks so much Mrs Roberts!

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=carmen+capuano

New Twitter Header.

This is my new Twitter header. What do you think?

Easy Life Or Crazy Life, What's Your Preference?

I originally wrote this post a couple of years ago, but came across it just the other day.

Reading it back, I'm amazed at how frantic my life was back then and how chilled it is by comparison now. See what you think...

First day of the school hols and I'm up with the larks...got a courier, a broken oven, a broken washing machine, a filthy house, a load of paperwork to fill in and file, 3 children, 2 dogs and a pigeon to sort out...did I mention it was the start of the summer hols???

Now let me explain...yesterday was an absolute nightmare of a day.

I had woken early, jumped out of bed and woken the kids for their last day of school for this academic year. Knowing that it was due to be a busy day, I got the breakfasts sorted, the lunch bags sorted and then myself showered. 

Racing against the clock, I pulled clothes over me as I dashed downstairs only to find the kids still enjoying a leisurely breakfast.

Shocked, the conversation went a little like this:-

"What are you doing? It's quarter to nine!" I whispered, still unable to talk properly due to my tonsillectomy.

 "No, mum, it's quarter to eight! You got us all up an hour early!" I was told emphatically and rather irately!!

And do you know what? They were absolutely right. So instead of just accepting this and cooling down, I then proceeded to clean all four bathrooms and arrange a courier for some books I had sold. I also phoned the washing repair man who seems to have either died before completing the job of repairing my machine, or alternatively has been eaten by sharks...because it's been a week since his last visit and still no sign of him returning.

Then [at the correct time], I took my youngest child to her leavers' assembly and sat and watched their teary performance. After this I walked my dogs and met with a group of mothers in town who were going to celebrate their children leaving first school.

Hungrily I watched them devour huge platefuls of appetising food, unable to participate due to my very recent tonsillectomy. I consoled myself with the thought that I had to leave early to collect child no. 1 from his school to attend an orthodontics appointment.

So a mere hour after sitting with the mums, I was back in the car, on route to the school once more. And what greeted me when I arrived? A truculent teenage who informed me that he was not happy to be missing the last hour and a half of school!

Annoyed now, I escorted him to the dentist where they took moulds of his teeth and raced him back to school for the final 40 minutes.

Then, passing the group of mums who were just heading back, relaxed and jolly, I set off to the next school to pick up the daughter who was finishing school that day.

At least she was pleased to see me.

We came home. Buoyed by her youthful exuberance and high spirits, I thought we would have a celebratory tea of spare ribs [I was hoping I could suck the meat off and bypass it into my throat with a lot of liquid libation] chips and chicken wings.

An hour and a half later, when the food was mildly warm but still raw, I knew there was something wrong. The oven had died. either in empathy with the washing machine or completely independently, it had lost the will to live.

It was then I went completely insane. Flinging  cooking utensils to the left, right and centre of myself, I hunted for alternative methods of cooking the foods I had promised to the kids.

Now at this juncture, most sane people would have said, 'ok, lets get a take away'. But you see, dear readers, that is where I differ from pretty much everyone else in the universe.

Like it was a personal affront to my dignity to throw away this food, I took it as a challenge that I would not be beaten over. 

Throwing the chips into a wok, I proceeded to burn them into charred remnants of what they once were, whilst I undercooked [yet also managed to burn] the ribs and wings in an electric frying pan.

Thinking that it would be a good idea to make an adventure of the situation, I then [unwisely as it turned out] put all the food on a sharing platter and a whole two tins of beans in a large bowl for the kids to help themselves.

What a mistake to make! In between arguing over who got which charred rib and how many chips they each loaded onto their plates, the kids complained that this was how cowboys ate and why had I made so much washing up for myself [oops forgot to say that the dishwasher broke a few months ago too].

After the squabbling had ended and I had cleared up, I was so wound up that I decided to take my frustration out on the oven itself.

Watching me trying to heave it from its cabinet, the coolly delivered "you might want to take the screws out first" from my eldest, did not really help. Head aching and the place where my tonsils used to hang out, burning in my throat, I wrestled with the oven, trying to get it out so that I could measure its dimensions for a new one. It was at this point that I accidently yanked the oven door right off, causing me to stagger backward with the weight of it in my hands.

The pigeon watched me from the safety of it's cage as if it were I who was some rare and endangered species of bird, beady eyes alert and if I'm not mistaken, filled with humour at my situation.

It was at this precise moment in time that the middle child came and told me that the upstairs toilet was now broken.  As I strode upstairs, summer dress flowing behind me, covered in grease, grime and sweat to repair/ make worse that situation, one thing occurred to me...I left home at eighteen and since then I have lived only ten years with a man in the house...and I still don't know how to fix one damned thing!

So that's why this morning my Facebook status read as it did. 

You are probably not as relieved as I am that as I write this blog at one pm, there is a man booked to come fix [I hope] the oven, the washing machine man has been located alive and well and will be back next week and I have vacuumed and tidied the house [oh and the courier has been]...did I tell you it was the first day of the summer hols...?

Happy holidays folks!

Review of The Owners: Alone and The Owners: Storm Clouds by the esteemed Gary Longden.

With grateful thanks to the esteemed Gary Longden, Staffordshire Poet Laureate 2014-15.

A new review

Here is the first review for Ascension.

https://echoesinanemptyroom.com/2017/07/24/ascension-by-carmen-capuano/

Back to work I go...

Today I have started back to work and am so relieved. As I told you before, I have to edit a couple of books already written prior to their publication, but I also want to write a book I started some time ago. The story is about a woman whose husband dies of cancer. But just before he does, he reveals something which tears her whole world apart...

Here is a little snippet:-

The Letter

Chapter 1

The house sucked at her energy. It drained her like a thirsty hiker on a hot summer’s day. She could feel it pulling at the blood in her veins, causing tidal waves of that vibrant red life-force to course through her to a never-achieved destination, moving ever onwards, ceaselessly searching out its well-worn pathway.

But of course it was not the house which drained her so. It was the situation within in.

Jim waited for her in another room. Weak and tired, waiting was what he did best now. Waiting was actually all that was left to him. Fran wondered what was left to her. What would be left when Jim was finally gone? A thin smell of sickness which seemed to have pervaded the entire house? The ripe smell of a cancer unchecked, which had permeated the paint and wallpaper of their bedroom? Was that all there would be?

Or would there be memories too? Memories which would linger to haunt her as if the images and sounds were captured within the porous brickwork and plaster, ready to be replayed whenever the whim took them?

It didn’t bear thinking about.  But she didn’t really need to ponder on it. The situation played itself out and she was just a bit player in every scene, the one who was necessary to breathe a little life into each act, to make it real and believable. The only one who would be left standing after the credits rolled and the curtains closed for that final time.

Funny how even after all these months it still didn’t seem real. She flicked the switch on the kettle and waited for it to boil. The kitchen seemed darker than usual and she glanced at the wall clock by the side of the back door. It was in the shape of a cow, mottled black and white paint depicting its legs and head, its torso taken up by the clockface which showed the hour to be six. But six am or pm? She genuinely did not know. The months and weeks since Jim’s diagnosis had blurred into one and in these last few days even the days and nights seemed interchangeable.

So if you enjoyed that little bit, take a look at the books I have already published - you won't regret it.

 

Happy Reading!

Taken with kind permission from the blog of Uncial Press, publishers of Ascension.

There are some fascinating novels based on a single action changing history. No, we aren’t talking about time travel, but about speculative stories that look at a single event and postulate what might have happened if the outcome had been different. One term for it is “alternate history.”
Alternate history is usually classed as science fiction, and we can’t argue with that, even though often there’s no science in it. Some the oldies we remember are Ward Moore’s Bring the Jubilee, The Gate of Worlds by Robert Silverberg, and Tunnel Through the Deeps by Harry Harrison. Personally, our favorite is A Midsummer Tempest by Poul Anderson; an original hardcover edition still resides on Jude’s bookshelves.

Sometimes a story isn’t strictly “alternate history” because the event that changed history isn’t part of it. Is that really important? Perhaps we can apply the theory that each decision creates a new possibility and myriad almost-parallel worlds lies side by side, but isolated from each other. And if you can accept that, it’s easy to accept stories that take place on Earth, but a different Earth from the one we currently exist on. After all, isn’t all fiction more or less like that? There are far more dukes in Regency romances than ever existed in the real England, nowhere near as many serial killers (thank goodness) in our world as in the many thrillers and mysteries about them, and not a whole lot of vampires walking the streets of our hometowns. Yet we accept all those alternate views of reality because they are entertaining, interesting, gripping.

Where are we going with this? As a matter of fact, this month’s release started us thinking about alternate history and alternate worlds, mostly because we couldn’t figure out quite what to call it. As far as we know, there is no place on our Earth with a society like it describes, but there could have been. Oh, yes, there could have been, for nothing is impossible.


In Ascension, Carmen Capuano describes a believable society with a structure of law intended to protect its citizens from the wages of sin and chaos. Everyone accepts the societal definitions of right and wrong until Jessica, a young woman with the unusual ability to see the color of people’s souls, realizes that a friend’s life will be destroyed by blind obedience to the law. With that realization comes questions, and those questions lead her on a quest. What she finds may threaten the whole fabric of society. The choice she makes could destroy her world. (Ascension, $6.99. ISBN 978-1-60174-2255-4).

We love mystery-thrillers, particularly those with just a touch of romance. Our March release fits that description nicely. Al Haggerty’s debut book, The Failover File, has industrial sabotage, plane crashes, billionaire industrialists, and a couple of federal agents who can’t be bought. What more does one need for a satisfying read? Oh, yes, there’s romance in there too.
And remember, we’ve always got a bunch of good (Uncial Press) ebooks for you to read. Stay tuned…

Star & Jude

Guest Post from Uncial Press

Time for a guest post from one of my publishers. Enjoy!

Guest Post

Snippet of current book...

Morning readers, and isn't it a lovely one?

Below, you will find a snippet of the book I am currently editing.

If you want to see more excepts of my writing style, just type the word 'snippets' into the search box on the right of here and you will be presented with a whole host of posts with little tasters of all of my books, [some not yet published].

You will find the link to my books on Amazon etc, also on the right.

PLEASE NOTE : THE FOLLOWING EXTRACT IS UNSUITABLE FOR ANYONE UNDER THE AGE OF 18.

For a while pessimism is my constant, albeit unwelcome, friend. I spend a long time wondering what it is that Matt actually sees in me. I am uncool, unbrave, uneverything. Perhaps Phat would be a better match for him after all… I try to shake the feeling off but it’s persistent. Dwelling on my problems isn’t helping them be solved, instead it’s feeding my insecurities.

I spend some time helping Charlie with his maths. We make some progress and I think that he’s finally starting to grasp some of the techniques that have been evading him until now. I only wish the rest of life was so simple to sort.

Dinner for me is a makeshift affair – a bacon and egg sandwich. Mum doesn’t even raise an eyebrow when I tell her I won’t be eating with the rest of the family - just carries on peeling potatoes and chopping carrots like she’s robot who has been programmed to do only this task and make no response to anything else.

I wonder if she’s noticed that I am wearing one of her tops and whether she’s noticed the other one I put in the wash after wearing. If she has, she doesn’t comment on it. Neither does Dad. But then perhaps he no longer knows what’s hers or mine anymore, now that his attention seems to be permanently focused elsewhere.

“Where are you off to?” he asks, not bothering to look up from his newspaper at me, when I go to the lounge to say goodbye to Charlie.

“Just out to catch up with Millie,” I lie, and because I can, without either him or Charlie who is watching TV again, noticing, I stick two fingers up as I answer. ‘That’s for actually not giving a shit in truth,’ I think at him.

He nods as if the universe is colluding with me. “Have fun!”

Fun? Really? I want to slap him. How the fuck does he think I can just dismiss everything that’s happened, that’s still happening? Can he? Has he?

“I have a project to do in history, I thought maybe you could help me with it later tonight?” I don’t, but perhaps it will make him wake up, make him take notice of what’s going on around him.

From the sublime to the ridiculous.

Sometimes I despair of our society - well I say sometimes, but actually it's quite often.

For a very long time, it has seemed to me and to many others, that the more we have, the more we crave, and that in some inverse need/want scenario, the less we actually enjoy those things which are the objects of our desires.

This is apparent everywhere in our consumer culture, from the frenzied rush to purchase the latest iPhone, which, regardless of cost in proportion to income, will be discarded as soon as an even better/bigger/smaller/louder/blingier version hits the shelves, to the fact that whilst cookery shows abound on TV and millions settle down to watch who will be heralded best baker or pastry chef, our high streets are filled with fast food outlets, our streets strewn with the discarded wrappers from the same outlets, and individual, non-chain shops are dying faster than the dodo.

And the answer to it all? Well according to some it's deconstruction - niche shops selling only specific items or catering for only a section of the population. A prime example of this, is those usually vibrantly displayed tobacco alternatives which have popped up everywhere, pumping their nefarious fumes out into the ozone...

But the latest trend that's got my goat, is not of the inhaling kind at all. It's of the imbibing kind.

Think of a cocktail. Its pastel or bold colours, its blend of flavours. It's pretty exotic right? Pretty awesome in fact.

Well apparently it's no longer exotic enough for our increasingly jaded tastes.

So now someone has come up with the idea of serving them in broken glasses. Deliberately designed and manufactured broken, to a precision that must make real artisan glass-blowers weep into their hands at the near profanity of the act, the glass is then filled with its intoxicating brew and served with what are apparently edible 'shards of  glass' protruding from it's center. Forgive me if I pass.

How is this high living? Maybe I'm old fashioned - hell maybe I'm just old. But I was taught to serve drinks in pristine, unchipped glass.

Have we come that far in our gluttonous lives, where every want must be immediately satiated for our juvenile sensitivities, that we can't even appreciate the most simple and unassuming things? I fear so.

And what's next? Will we be eating deconstructed shepherd's pie from stainless steel dog bowls, rendered-asunder fish pie from goldfish bowls? I hope not...but in truth I think it's only a matter of time.

So move over Fido... now where did I put that wire scourer?

Silver linings and all that...

I'm so sorry - you're all going to hate me for this, but I'm loving the fact that it's raining.

The ground was so hard - the grass beginning to dry and shrivel up - and I knew exactly how it felt.

A short, sharp burst of heavy rain is exactly what we need right now.

So come on, dust off those wellies and umbrellas and dance in the rain. It will be hot and sunny again tomorrow and everything will grow and bloom just because of the little wet interlude we've had.

Remember - every silver lining starts with a cloud. 

Happy reading!

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!