Authors Electric

Emily likes to make an entrance. Had she been born in the time of grand balls in stately homes, she’d have waited to be announced on arrival – Lady Emily Coombs – and she’d glide into a room and capture everyone’s attention. I’m more of a sneak-in-the-back-door girl; I like to feel my way around an atmosphere, gauge the room, watch from the shadows until I know who is in charge – who are the leaders and how will things play out. Because no party is simply a get-together of friends. There are friendship groups, power-plays, things that might happen and things that will never happen. I don’t expect it’s any different in the adult world and us teenagers are simply learning the rules of the game early, so we can figure out how to bend them when we need to. Tonight, the worst that will happen will be bruised egos – maybe a fight – but it’s all practice for the real thing.  Or so I tell myself as Liam strolls over to us in the hallway, his hand brushing my bum in a gesture I suspect nobo...

There’s something very spiritual about certain places. They don’t have to be places of religious worship, but they quite frequently are – indeed, it’s the spirituality of a place that often inspires the building of a place of worship. Maybe it’s the peace and quiet, or a location far away from centres of population  We spent a few days in Llangollen recently at the Chainbridge Hotel. So called because it does indeed have a chain-bridge over the river Dee; the hotel is perched on a narrow strip of land between the start of the Llangollen canal at the Horseshoe Falls and the river Dee. The majority of rooms have balconies overlooking the river and the constant loud white noise of roiling water over the rapids is curiously soothing at night.  But if you walk up past the Horseshoe Falls on a small footpath through the woods, you come to a tiny church in the middle of nowhere. Llantysilio church dates back to the 12th century, but it’s suggested that its location may have been due ...

Since 23 March, when lockdown was announced in the UK, I’ve found myself seeking solace in familiar books. This isn’t something I do regularly – unlike my eldest daughter, who re-reads certain books repeatedly, what she calls ‘comfort reading’, particularly at times of stress. Apparently reading the Harry Potter books or Jane Austen’s entire oeuvre is the thing to help get her through public exams or, indeed, starting as a junior doctor during a pandemic. She also turns to familiar films – almost anything by Disney, various (often rather cheesy) musicals, etc. at such times. For me, generally, if I’ve read a book or seen a film so recently that I can remember the ending (let alone how the plot takes us there), it’s far too soon to experience it again. ( Star Wars is about the only exception – oh, and The Adventures of Robin Hood ; I can never have too much of Errol Flynn’s blithe, sunny optimism and desperate historical inaccuracy…) My only regular re-reading is the ann...

In a week’s time, on the eve of the winter solstice, I’ll be starting one of my favourite annual traditions. Winter isn’t my preferred season (late spring/early summer with their young green leaves and revving-up sunshine are far more to my liking), but even I’ll admit there’s something magical about midwinter. It doesn’t have anything to do with my pagan forebears, or with the fact that Christmas comes hot on its heels (...possibly not the most appropriate metaphor), simply that it’s the setting for what is probably my favourite book. Since I first read it at the perfect age of eleven, The Dark is Rising by Susan Cooper has occupied my number 1 spot – and is the book I’ve most often returned to. Forget Lord of the Rings , Cancer Ward , Gone with the Wind or War and Peace . Something has regularly drawn me back to read TDIR (and not just that it’s quite a bit shorter than my other faves!). So much so that over the past two (three?) decades, it’s become a tradition to read it j...

As I was driving home recently it occurred to me just how rich the beautiful neck of the country I am lucky enough to dwell in is in writers and writerly stuff: Enid Blyton used to live just down the road from here, while in the opposite direction Milton laid low from the plague whilst scribbling the end of Paradise Lost. And close by, a walk I enjoy with my whippets takes us over Whiteleaf Hill, the inspiration for Kevin Crossley-Holland's Tumber Hill in his Arthurian trilogy, and of course ex-Bucks resident Susan Cooper's Dark is Rising is stuffed to bursting with local landmarks. I love it when a book I'm reading is written by a local, and even more when it refers to an area I know, and which I can visit: it creates an additional special link for me. Another fabulous writer who grew up around here was of course, the brilliant Terry Pratchett ... and very close to where I live is the bookshop which is credited as having been the inspiration for his creation of L-space* ...

Now I’m not a huge fan of the current trend in paranormal fantasy/romance/whatever. Yes, I admit I read Twilight (and, yes, I enjoyed it), but I have no desire to delve into the ocean of teenage mortal-meets-demon angst. I'm the mother of a teenager and get enough of it at home, thanks... But I do love faeries. The whole mythos is infinitely more complex than that of vampires, demons and werewolves and seems securely rooted in Celtic legend. And every book I read stays more-or-less true to the basic premise, while maybe adding a new twist. And as those of you who know me well will also know - I've always been obsessed by the idea of other worlds, parallel universes, realities that sit alongside our own and touch on occasion. But why are all my favourite tales of Faerie set in America? Celtic mythology has Irish and Welsh roots, surely? Is the American take on it a result of the mass Irish immigration into America over the years? Maybe they took their tales of home wi...