The moon finally peeked from behind the clouds as the dogs trotted on across the dark, windswept moorland, scattering powdery snow with their tails. The pilot (perhaps called ‘Jack’, but he wasn’t entirely sure) limped along, looking up every so often and cursing the white disc above him. His memory had deserted him, he was frozen to the core, rigid with pain, and beholden to the silent, dour giant of a man beside him. The crash would never have happened on a clear night. He would have made it to wherever the hell he was meant to be… Continue reading Out of the Frying Pan… The Reluctant Rescue of Jack Fairchild
FOXFIRES – what’s it all about?
It was a relief to finally type ‘The End’ on my fourth book and I think the characters felt it too. We’ve been working together on and off for twelve years now in extremely adverse conditions, and they’ve been very patient with me. Continue reading Welcome to the Family, Foxfires!
Writing can be a very lonely thing to do sometimes, filled with a lot of self-doubt. You can write something one day and think you created something special, and then look at it the next day and cringe inside. So it’s wonderful when somebody reaches out and recognises what you’re trying to achieve… I’m thrilled and grateful to the New Zealand Society of Authors for … Continue reading Foxfires Wins A Prize!
As it’s Groundhog Day, here’s the story behind ’11:42′ – but not because of the cute little woodchuck that predicts the arrival of Spring every Feb 2nd in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. Continue reading Groundhog Night
Good advice new writers should already know if they’re worth their salt – but putting it all into practise is the hard part so it’s good to have a reminder. Especially true of Fiona Barton’s advice : “Every new writer should just get on with it.” 😀 Continue reading Every New Writer Should…
A little message for the New Year ahead …. Happy New Year! Make every day count xxx Continue reading The Blank Pages of 2020
His moustache wriggled like a caterpillar when he laughed. Florence hated it. She hated the moustache, she hated the high waistband of his tweed trousers, the way George cleared his throat all the time – huh-hummm. The protruding mole by his ear, the smell of stale pipe tobacco, the way he kept his fingernails so long that they cut into the skin of her arm now as he gripped her. She shook her arm, but he held it all the tighter. And while his mouth smiled, she saw anger in his eyes. Continue reading The Quiet Fight and Flight of Florence Morgan
Standing in the corner of my grandma’s hallway in my disgrace, the stolen shortbread still melting on my tongue, I placed my hands on the walls, closed my eyes and saw Grandad. Continue reading INSPIRATION: The Walls Have Ears (and Eyes)