Authors Electric

  I have a confession. Sometimes I change my mind. Not about big things: I still think Brexit a terrible idea, I still think marrying my husband was a great one, but on smaller issues I like to try things out. I like to try a new idea for fit, challenge it then move on.  My hair is a case in point. I have a lot of ideas about it - most of them terrible. At one time or another I have tried out most cuts, hairstyles and colours: waist length to super short crop, curly perms, root perms and ringlets, bobs, shags, page boys, the Purdy, the Farah Fawcett flick, the Jennifer Aniston layered thing, even (whisper it) a mullet. (Thankfully, most photographic evidence has been lost.) I've been several shades of  blonde, red, brown, grey and latterly lilac.  I've never been tempted by cosmetic surgery but hair grows back, most mistakes can be fixed. So, finally, I come to my point: my approach to hair is very much my approach to editing. You can mess up a lot in writing, but you can alway

'Terrasje' on maskfree, carefree Covid-free days  - photo by Kirsten Bett Sitting in the sunshine. Naturally the sun shines on this 28th of April, the first day we are permitted to book a table on a 'terrasje', the Dutch word for the outside areas of café or pub. They are popular in a country that needs to maximise every square centimetre of its space. Many pavements, squares and even barges are put into use in the summer.  Covid put an end to that but today we can book a table and sit outside for a set amount of time, enjoying a good cuppa and practising our favourite passtime: people watching. About 10,000 cafés are not taking part. They say they are not happy with opening their doors to the public when Covid shows no sign of easing the healthcare in hospitals. Also, the bad weather forecast might have something to do with that decision as well as the requirement to stick to corona rules, ie household bubbles, keeping 1,5 metre distance and wearing a mask when moving

  Apologies for missing my slot last month. I intended to write a review of Book Wars by John B, Thompson, but didn’t have time to read it, let alone write about it. Instead, I moved house for the first time in 35 years. I had underestimated just how much time and effort would be required to condense a large family’s lifetime of possessions into a house half the size. I don’t think I have ever felt quite so physically or mentally exhausted.  It has made me realise that for the last fifty or so years, hardly a day has passed when I have not been consumed by writing, reading, researching, thinking about writing or thinking about the money that I need to earn from writing – hardly a day, literally. There has been little time for reflecting on the bigger picture. So, spending a few weeks immersed both physically and mentally in an entirely different task has been refreshing as well as exhausting. Turning out the old house inevitably caused some forgotten memories to float to the surfa

       One of my favourite words is malmaroking.   I learned it decades ago, and loved it for its exactness.  I shall probably never be able to use it, since it means ‘ the carousing of sailors in ice-bound ships.’  Though I suppose I could write a whole book just to include it. Or maybe just a short story.      Flash-fiction?            It's not the kind of carousing you find outside nightclubs at a weekend, you note.  This carousing is done exclusively by sailors – and even if the nightclubs were crammed with drunken sailors, still no malmaroking would be done, because they’d be on land. And merely having a ship load of drunken sailors isn’t enough either, because it has to be an ice-bound ship.  Only once ship and rowdy, drunken crew are ice-bound would all the criteria be met, and you could honestly say that malmaroking ensued.           ‘Malmaroking’ was originally Dutch, I believe. Presumably, in past times, the Dutch spent a lot of time on board ships in arctic re

In June 2019 I took a day trip to the The Isle of May which lies in the Firth of Forth, about 5 miles off the coast. The island was the site of St Adrians Priory during the Middle ages. Now it it a nature reserve and home to colonies of birds including; Puffins, Arctic Terns, Cormorants, Guilliemots, Shags, Razorbills and grey seal pups during the winter. It is a magical mix of seabirds, seals and smuggling. The adventure started with the ferry from Anstruther, 45 minutes later we arrived for our day on the Island.   I am new to photography and this was my first real outing with my DSLR camera. This little bird seemed to pose for the shot. Scooting off for fish and then appearing back on this rock . He seemed to enjoy having his photograph taken as we camera experts snapped his best side. The next photograph shows how crowded the Island is with birds, seals, and other wildlife. No social distancing here. Artic Terns will swoop at you to protect their young. Seagulls try to take young p

How does a writer get an idea for a story? I’ve read several blogs where authors got annoyed when asked this question. I don’t get annoyed, but it does make me think. It’s not an easy question to answer.  The old maxim “Write what you know” comes to mind, but what does this really mean? Does it mean the author has lived his or her characters’ lives?  I’ve written erotic fiction, psychological suspense, and mystery, and though a lot of who I am has shaped my female characters, I have certainly not lived their lives. The protagonists have been strong women who have loved deeply, travelled the world, had sex with men—sometimes multiple men at the same time.  My characters are much more interesting than I am, and that’s how I want them to be.  You can infer what you like, but I believe fiction should be more than just thinly veiled reflections of authors’ lives. As writers, we should not limit ourselves to what we know.  I can assure you I have not experienced everything I’ve written. So h

Essential (thatched) Cottages In the wilds of Oxfordshire, there is a village: we could call this village a microcosm of its county, even of its country. Which is the country of Lord Peter Wimsey , Bertie Wooster , all of the Agatha Christie murders you can think of (and possibly a few more) and of many distressed gentlefolk and frustrated spinsters. It is as they say, the quintessential English (note, not British) place to find many fictional characters. It is called Crampton Hodnet, and is the fictional abode of various characters from the imagination of Miss Barbara Pym.   This past week, a new biography of Pym (2 June 1913 – 11 January 1980) was read, in 15 minute slots, on BBC Radio 4. Having read Crampton Hodnet many years ago (my sister-in-law had a copy, and decided we all needed to know more about the doings of typical inhabitants of perfect English villages, so pressed it upon me). I was curious to know more about Pym, whom I admit I have not read (apart from one other) fro

Imagine living under an all-powerful leader who has gone insane. One act of madness follows another, until even his closest advisers and friends begin to realise he is not who they thought he was when he ascended to power. No, I'm not talking about a 21st century leader - however tempting the comparison! I am talking about Rome in the 1st century, when we were merely a barbaric outpost known as Britannia, and the Emperor Caligula was in charge. Caligula was a nickname, given to the emperor when he was a small boy and accompanied his father on campaign wearing miniature war sandals. It means 'Little Boots', which sounds rather sweet to me, and maybe he was sweet at that age. But, after he ascended the throne in AD 37, something changed. Acts of madness and cruelty abounded, until Caligula's reign as emperor ended with his assassination in AD 41 and his uncle Claudius took over. It was a turbulent period in Rome, giving rise to many rumours, including one that Caligula ma

  Long years ago, we were at a party and there was a comical-but-irritating man, like someone out of The Fast Show or Monty Python, who kept butting into conversations, saying ‘I wrote a poem about that,’ no matter what the topic was. I may be turning into him, although I don’t go around interrupting people about it. I’m just finding more and more things to poetify. Why? Perhaps my age has something to do with it (think trombones leading A Big Parade).  Old Age I saw you from a distance in those days The days of carefree, self-regarding youth The days when ‘how I want it’ stood for truth Your world unfocussed in my shortened gaze   What were false teeth, what walking sticks, grey hair? What was a ‘span’ of three-score years and ten? Beyond a fleeting frisson now and then Your presence was ignored: not my affair.   But since I have long passed the given span My vision is corrected, no short sight Can help me to avoid your company You’re here now. First