Joy of Joys!

– I’m part of this world again!

Isn’t it amazing how little things turn into big things, and make such a difference?

Before, I didn’t know what I was missing, although I’d become aware that something was deteriorating. I put it down to old age creeping up on me, and joked about quirks of concentration – wondered about the beginnings of dementia… all the while becoming increasingly withdrawn. Feeling isolated.

Seeking comfort in my computer and the internet.

Now – I’m reminded of the presence of little birds as I walk to the bus stop. The movement of people and things around me take on new meaning.

I cannot keep the secret from you any longer – it is easier to follow programs on the telly; the car radio has reached a new dimension with surround sound; at choir practice I can actually hear people singing the different parts, and my voice rings clear in my head – though it’s taken a few days to get used to the volume.

Yes! I’ve got hearing aids in both ears, and I rejoice in every background noise.

Welcome world – I belong once more!

 

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Charity – The Circle of Life

The Crooked Cat Christmas festivities ends today!

Here is a little tale to illustrate the cycle of life in Africa – that continent of survivors. I’m off to Kenya later this month, to hibernate, soak up the atmosphere, and research for my next book.

A scraggly line moves through the scorching dust and hungry faces peer from scruffy clothes; feeble fingers clutch at empty gourds and eyes flash out in guarded expectation. Beneath the branches of a shading neem a trestle rests, and on its scrubbed surface stands a cauldron. Behind the bubbling pot a pretty lady laughs, red hair dancing in the sun.

To each in turn she doles a dripping spoon of nourishment, then with compassion gestures to a pile of bread.

Children hover round the table, gulping down the soup with burning swallows, tearing at the bread with frantic fingers, then turn to wander off.

John nears a circle of mud huts; a chicken, scurfy, cocky, squawks at him; he scratches at the dust, picks up a pebble and waits  – for what?

That night on crumpled sacking he hears as chunks of meat crunch loudly through the dark and hearty bursts of drunken laughter fill the room. But he must wait in hunger for a while; he’s had his plate of charity today.

He goes to Mission School. His shredded clothes are washed and patched.

At home his mother toils in angry squalor, her only son is lazing at the school. She snatches him away and sends him to the bwana. John’s back grows stiff from gardening, his fingers crack, his spirits fall.

He meets a lovely girl and scrapes the bride-price, but rain pours through his roof.

‘Two years I’ve toiled for you, Bwana – please help me now?’

The Rev. Brown reclines in sumptuous comfort over tea and cakes beside the fire; consults his wife. They spare three hundred shillings.

John marvels at the money in his hand and thanks the bwana in deep gratitude. A house of stone is in his dreams. He hires a builder and watches walls begin to rise.

The work stops; more payment is required. John tosses in the night.

The Reverend is hot with anger and surprise.

‘This house will last forever,’ John pleads. ‘My wife and child are cold and wet; the money’s gone. We’re in your hands, good Bwana, please?’

The clergyman ponders.

‘I gave money in good faith,’ he tells his wife. ‘If I’d given John the materials for his hut…’

‘He’d still have asked for more,’ she says.

‘What shall we do – let his house remain an empty shell? Leave his family in squalor and poverty?’

She shakes her head. ‘We can’t betray his trust.’

John’s house is built. Promoted to the kitchen he accepts gifts of old clothes for his children. Two more are born, and yet another. It is an awkward birth and Bwana calls a doctor.

John takes home-grown eggs and chickens to the Memsahib, who gracefully accepts, although she needs them not.

His brother comes to visit, wanting help; his mother stays, his wife invites her sister with a baby. The bwana gives him land to plant some maize and beans.

The years go past and Rev Brown retires.

The new incumbent has no need for John, who drags his wife and children to the bus stop with blankets, beds and chairs. From a hovel in the slums he looks for work, in vain. His children starve, their clothes are tattered. They line the street with empty gourds and wait, while healthy memsahibs smile behind the counter, feeding hungry mouths with thankful nourishment.

 Christmas with the Crooked Cats

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A Near Rebellion

We say goodbye to Zinniah, wishing her well at the border at Eilat. Awaiting us is a plush, air conditioned coach, with enough seats for double our number. We have a driver, a police escort and Mohamed, our Jordanian guide as we swing along the empty highway to Wadi Rum.

Eleven of us disembark with packed lunches to walk the 7km through the Siq al Barrah in the heat of the afternoon, while the rest opt for the easier 4WD route to camp.

90 lunch break (640x359)

We cross a railway line and settle on a rock in some shade to eat our lunch. A goods train chuffs towards us. There is no oil in Jordan, but the country exports phosphates. The sand is soft, better than walking on hard pavements, but it plays havoc with my leg muscles. The others march on ahead.

91 Desert walk (640x359)95 Camp in the cleft (640x359)

I spot some partridges. The landscape is dramatic – stark granite outcrops in fascinating shapes and shadows. Clumps of spiny bushes are dotted among the sand; tyre tracks everywhere; some lizard tracks. A 4WD keeps us company for the first half, but I am determined to plod on. There is so much more life to see here, than in the softer dunes and gullies of the Negev desert.

97 Basic camp (359x640)Our campsite hides behind an enormous elbow of rock, safe from wind and weather. It is very basic. Our communal sleeping quarters consists of one black oblong shed. Tent material in the desert is made from goats’ wool, distinguished by white horizontal stripes. Our toilet in a dark shed against the rock is a hole in the ground, not well managed by our group.

We are greeted by our hosts with delicious sage tea, but there is no luggage. A near rebellion follows. We were not warned; none of us are prepared; vital medicines have been left behind. Steph exerts her charms and a special delivery is organised.

99 Sand baked supper (640x359) (2)We gather for supper round the remains of a camp fire. Jordanian food is deliciously spicey. We are treated with a sand-cooked meal and the lentil soup is outstanding.

There is no electricity and I can’t find my torch. Several people drag their mattresses out to sleep under the stars, but I am so exhausted, I can’t be bothered to join them.

101 Desert safari (640x359)

After an excellent breakfast of vegetable omelettes, we enjoy a two hour 4WD safari through the fascinating outcrops and dramatic scenery of the Jordanian desert. Artistic shapes and shadows everywhere; one massif looks as if it is covered with Egyptian hieroglyphics, another is shaped like a pyramid.

110 Me and my ancestor (640x359)

We stop to admire ancient rock art, at a multi-storied spring, and at the shrine of Laurence of Arabia, who is a distant ancestor of mine.

115 Luxury coach (640x359)113 End of the desert trail (640x359)

The leading vehicle flounders in the sand, and the driver gets out to let air from the tyres. And then we transfer back into our luxurious coach to pass the site of modern day camel races. We visit the touristy “Seven Pillars of Wisdom” before taking the highway to the jewel of our safari, the ancient Nabataean town of Petra.

116 The seven pillars (640x359)

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Bad Luck Versus Good Luck?

Welcome back yet again, Nancy Jardine, to set my new year off in style! And thank you for this little lesson from a different culture…

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Thank you, Jane, for giving me this opportunity to visit you so early in the New Year of 2015.

Days have passed since the bells struck midnight on January 1st and we entered the New Year. The frills and fanfare of the holiday season may now be over, but one of the big things I love about greeting in a New Year to come is that I have lots of well-wishing from friends and relatives. These have such a heartening ‘good feel’ factor about them and they’re a wonderfully positive looking forward to the coming months. In return, since the 1st of January, I’ve sent wishes for good health, wealth and happiness to my family and Facebook/internet friends and I don’t think it’s too late for me to wish that for my host, Jane, and to extend it to you, her blog readers.

Good luck with projects that are due in 2015 is also a greeting that I’ve been sharing with many of my friends.

I have to confess, though, that something I don’t have such a personal ‘feel good’ factor about is that many of my world-wide internet friends share their greetings days in advance of those bells proclaiming the turn of the year. Even though I appreciate that time-differences play a great part in this, I can’t bring myself to send my own ‘Happy New Year’ greetings till after the bells.

Does that mean that I’m a mean person? I certainly hope not, but when I was growing up in Glasgow, Scotland, it was thought to be bad luck if you said those words too early i.e. before the turn of the year. If someone wasn’t likely to see you over the turn of the year yet wanted to send you some kind of greeting then they would say ‘All the best when it comes’. If they met you in the street, or in some other situation some days later in January, that was when ‘Happy New Year’ words were exchanged. If you’ve had a returned greeting from me before the 1st of January arrived, then the words were likely to be something like the above ‘all the best…’.

I’ve managed to shake of some of the older traditions I was brought up with and have embraced some new traditions recently created– like not having a ‘steak-pie’ dinner at home on January 1st with extended family and instead now having an Indian curry at a restaurant en masse – yet the Happy New Year greetings one sticks in my craw. I’m not a superstitious person, but I can’t bring myself to wittingly wish ‘Bad Luck’ on anyone.

Good luck is something all authors need if they want to have their novels come to the attention of hundreds of readers – good luck partnered with those heavy doses of time spent on promotional advertising.

So I’ll conclude with wishing Jane, and her blog readers, Happy New Year and a heap of Good Luck in 2015.

Nancy Jardine writes contemporary mysteries, historical adventures and time-travel adventure for the YA market.  Her novels are available to buy from Amazon, B &N, and many other internet ebook sites.

You can find Nancy Jardine on  Twitter: @nansjar , and on the following websites:

Blog:  Website:  Facebook:   Pinterest:   LinkedIn: Goodreads:

Google+

 

 

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Like Vanilla Ice Cream Threaded with Chocolate

The caves of Qumran are high up in the hills above the village. The Essenes hid their scrolls there in jars, which were discovered by Bedouin shepherds in 1947, causing a stir in the religious world. We walk through the carefully preserved site of their village before they were dispersed by the Romans in 68 AD. Below us the Dead Sea shimmers in the heat.

70 Top of Ein Gedi

On to En Gedi Nature Reserve, where we walk the shaded 2 kilometres up Wadi David to the top waterfall, which springs from a rock. I paddle my feet while others frolic in the cool water. We spot a few ibex, Tristram’s grackle, blackstarts and white-crowned black wheatears. I buy a book on Israel’s birds at the crowded visitor centre before we leave.

A large kibbutz is shown on the map, but I don’t hear Zinniah speak about it: only about her early experiences being brought up in a kibbutz, and the fact that she can’t talk to her sister any more, because she (the sister) is a strict orthodox Jewess and they have nothing in common. Zinniah is somewhat emotional – a product of the sadness of Israel? She lives in Eilat and enjoys guiding around Sinai. She’s in her fifties and has been guiding for thirty years.

The eastern bank of the Red Sea is in a constant haze. Surrounding us is unmitigated desert, and outside the bus it is stifling hot. We snooze for the next hour as the bus takes us on.

Our Bedouin camp is the height of luxury and hospitality. I have never seen such spotless, well-appointed wash rooms in a camp site.

I’ll let Ann, the main character in I Lift Up My Eyes take you on:

A drive through the Negev desert took them through a wonderland of sand formations. Striated dunes revealed several levels of subtle brown, purple and pink hues. One mound reflected the sun, looking as if it were made of mother of pearl. Others were heaped like vanilla ice cream threaded with chocolate.

They had lunch on mats spread under a lone acacia tree. Large rounds of soft unleavened bread were served by smiling Arabs in traditional garb. They spread the falafels with goat’s cheese, topped with tomato, courgettes and peppers, and then rolled each one into paper holders. Ann bit through her crisp, spicy portion, licking at the tomato juice which dribbled down her chin, and gazed over the relentless desert, shimmering with heat.

72 Our tent

Their Bedouin camp for the night was the height of luxury and hospitality. An Arab, also dressed in traditional garb, introduced himself. In his other life, he owned a modern air-conditioned house, and his children went to school in Germany. Another played the lute, and encouraged the party to clap with the beat. Then they enjoyed as much as they could eat of unleavened bread, spiced salads, rice, chicken and beef. Ann laid her sleeping bag over one of many mattresses dotted round the enormous carpeted marquee, which was decorated with drapes and baskets overflowing with apples.

84 Masada behind the camp We drive to the east side of Masada, and watch an informative video, before taking the cable ride to Snake Path gate at the top of the mountain. According to the account of Josephus Flavius, the Romans laid siege to it, building a ramp with the help of Hebrew slaves to storm the Jewish city (around 70 AD). But the Jews took their own lives, rather than live in shame as Roman slaves.

77 Herod's palace

Zinniah leads us quickly through the store room complex and down three steep flights of (shaded) steps to the lower terrace of Herod’s Northern palace, the bath houses and apartments, where the last of the Jews had taken his life rather than be captured. I linger after the others, savouring the view and conserving my breath.

74 View over the Dead Sea

We are given an hour to ourselves. It is hot, and I fill my bottle at one of the many water points around the site. I pass through the ruins of small palaces and the public immersion room. There isn’t time to take it all in. Why are we hurried so much?

I wander through the Western Palace, and listen in to an English speaking guide pondering over the magnificent mosaics in the bath complex.

On the dot of the hour, I reach the meeting point at the top of the ramp path. I spot Zinniah leaning over the rail, her back to me, speaking into her mobile. The others are waiting in a canteen far below. With an impatient glance, she ushers me down the path. I refuse to be hurried – I don’t want to fall. She looks back irritably, then points to some bits of wood sticking out from the ramp, wondering aloud how many Hebrew slaves were buried in it. And in answer to my question, she tells me the Romans had taken three years to build it.

78 The other side

 

 

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Crooked Cat Winter Sale – now on!

Stephanie Patterson's avatarCrooked Cats' Cradle

If you’ve been wondering what to do with your new ebook reader, you’ve come to the right place!

From 28th – 31st December, you will find many Crooked Cat ebooks reduced to 77p / 99c!

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Fancy a romantic read, something historical, a mystery or even crime? You’ll find them here:

Amazon UK   Amazon.com

Enjoy your new reads, and Happy New Year! 🙂

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Things Going Wrong and a Glorious Mud Bath



The road from Jerusalem to Jericho, oldest city in the world, is smoothly tarred. We stop at sea level to take photos, and Zinniah our guide gets muddled between degrees of latitude and degrees of heat. Then we dip into Jericho, drawing to a halt near an ancient “sycamore” tree.

‘Why are we getting out here?’

Zinniah is silent.

I remember that she told us half an hour ago about Zaccariah the tax collector climbing a sycamore tree to see Jesus.

58 Zaccarias' tree

Eventually the penny drops. But my bible says his name is Zacchaeus, and Susan whispers ‘That isn’t a sycamore tree…’

We keep quiet.

The bus takes us on to a parking spot in a dusty area. We are to get out again, Zinniah says.

‘There’s a shop over there,’ she waves vaguely to some buildings on the left, but scampers towards a rough pathway up an opposite slope into the blazing sun. We emerge from the bus and dither between the two choices. A couple detach themselves and wander towards the unprepossessing shops. I follow the majority up the slippery path.

60 Temptation in the desert

Zinniah points out a distant escarpment, where she says Jesus was tempted in the wilderness, then she races downwards through mounds of sand towards some vague excavations. The heat beats down and my nose begins to burn under the brim of my hat.

I round on our tour leader, who soothingly offers to go back to the bus for my sun bloc, binoculars and scarf.

But she wouldn’t know where to look. She accompanies me to the bus, and by the time we return, everyone has wandered back from the ruins and they head off for a drink at the shops. I plonk myself on a bench under some meagre shade, while another group is introduced to the site. I listen in and study the temptation mountain through my binoculars. In the stifling heat, and burning with indignation, I do not feel like straggling through the site on my own.

The bus is choc-a-bloc, the luggage taking up the whole of the back seat. We have to sit with our backpacks on our laps or in the aisle. My single seat is too small for me, and there is no arm rest, nor does the safety belt work.

Our leader is angry, and telephones the tour office from time to time, asking in vain for a bigger bus. Zinniah has to stand at the front. Her spiel is as muddled and incoherent as ever. At least our leader now tries to keep us informed of what’s ahead, although she’s not been here before.

The Dead Sea looks deliciously refreshing. With a host of other tourists, I plod down to the beach wearing my sandals – the ground is so hot – and step onto the wooden pier. Bodies bob atop the wrinkled waters and I dip my toe into the tepid liquid. I try to immerse myself, but I keep on popping up. Giggling, I catch someone’s eye.

62 Floating in the Dead Sea

‘You have to just lie there, and keep still,’ she tells me.

I try again. Just lie there…. While the top half of my body bakes.

I want to turn over.

It is hilarious trying to manoeuvre in the buoyant water, but after several attempts, I learn; then keep still. It’s more entertaining on my back with head cocked to watch other unwary souls approach the water’s edge.

I hear a shout and a loud plop from near the beach. A group of travellers coated with mud, are pelting each other with the heavy stuff.

‘It’s therapeutic,’ they cry. ‘Come and try!’

Clumsily I make my way through the resisting water and stretch into the gluey substance, grimacing as it oils its way through intimate folds of skin. I keep clear of the frolicking youths, then clamber onto the shore and retrieve my sandals, going with other souls covered with grey slime, for a fresh water shower followed by a delicious drink of pomegranate juice.

63 After the swim

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Thank You for Having Me

It’s fun visiting other authors’ blogs and here’s a big thank you to everyone for having me this past year.

First there was Tim Taylor on 13th January. He asked me some pertinent questions about Africa, including what led me to write Breath of Africa. Tim also writes historical fiction, specialising in an era further back in time than mine. I thoroughly enjoyed his atmospheric book Zeus of Ithome and I’m looking forward to the next one.

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I have been an admirer of Nancy Jardine’s Celtic Fervour books, ever since I joined the Crooked Cats. She is an example to us all, the way she doggedly just gets on with marketing them. She has also written the Award-nominated Topaz Eyes. We discussed marketing strategies on Welcome Wednesday last January, and it is interesting reading our conversation in retrospect. A few things have changed!

Fiona McVie is that rare being – a genuine reader who loves to find out about the authors she reads. I was honoured to answer the questions she posed on her blog, but to be honest, I did pick and chose the questions. I’d learned by then to treasure every little thrill when a book sells – making money out of it is necessarily of secondary importance. And of course, every review is like gold dust.

Pamela KeltPamela Kelt is a prolific writer with some very professional websites; she’s handy with her camera, too. She’s a diminutive person (I’ve met her at Crooked Cat gatherings) with a personality which far exceeds her height. Pam invited me to describe the Knots I Tied Myself Into when trying to write my first novel. On second reading, I can’t imagine how I managed to finish the book.

I have also had the privilege of meeting Lorraine Mace – otherwise known as Frances di Plino in Crooked Cat circles. She is nowhere near as fierce as she may appear from the photo, and I thoroughly enjoyed her Di Paulo Storey crime-thriller books. Dauntingly professional she is, with her impressive writing background and history of helping others. I was proud to be featured on her blog last May, when she allowed me a little piece on Coping with Adverse Criticism.

Sunrise labradorLela Markham in far away Alaska, faithful friend from my authonomy days, interviewed me in July. She is quite a shy person, and I love her avatar. I am doubly grateful, for I was the first interviewee on her  diverse and intensely interesting blog, and then she asked me back, to talk about Pinpricks of Ecstasy! Her first novel, The Willow Branch is a wonderfully written Christian fantasy, and the picture of the aurora on her website never fails to catch at my throat.

Catriona King, a doctor and writer of the immensely readable Craig Crime series, is a lady of many talents. How she manages to churn out those books AND lead a theatrical group in her home town in Ireland, astonishes me. What it is to be young. And now she’s writing crime-thrillers! I’ve bought every single one of her books. Catriona invited me to her place in August, when I was starting to think of the sequel to my novel. I can’t seem to find my piece, but her website is worth a look.

RigaDear Ailsa Abraham, whichever persona she chooses to take, is a great magician, and her books are deservedly best-sellers. The piece she wrote for me two years ago on Magic, a Worldwide Product continues to attract visitors. We often exchange hospitality, and it was my turn to go to her place this August, when I talked about how life goes round in circles. Perhaps she’s magicked it away – I cant find that one either. But she’s a friend worth having – here’s her blog.

Marj McRaeMarj MacRae is another of my valued Authonomy friends. She lives in Australia. A prolific  writer, she prefers to remain in the background. But she encouraged me to write about my favourite pastime – dreaming. I didn’t need a second invitation, and even based my maiden speech to Toastmasters International in Eastbourne on this piece!

Sue BarnardAuthor and editor extraordinaire, Sue Barnard has written a wonderful book based on Romeo and Juliet, which was nominated for the Guardian First Book Award this year. I cannot recommend it highly enough. And Sue is a fun person – I met her in London earlier this year, with many other Crooked Cat authors. With Sue looking over my shoulder, I delved into the history of my family, as I knew it, and came to the conclusion that Truth is Stranger than Fiction.

Sarah Louise SmithWe’re a supportive group of authors, those published by Crooked Cat, so I suppose it’s no surprise that the majority of my hosts and hostesses come from that cradle. Sarah Louise Smith is another who has kindly offered me hospitality. I haven’t met her yet, but I intend to continue going to our annual get-togethers in hopes. Her Amy and Zach is a lovely light romantic YA story; I’ve reveiwed it on amazon. She has allowed me to wax on about the writing muse, and when it hits. Thank you, Sarah.

Carol Anne HunterAnd finally, Carol Ann Hunter, who has a lovely crinkly blog, posed me some questions, which allowed me to think back and wallow in the past. I have a long list of books to buy and review, and her debut novel Project Me is high on the agenda. She describes it as hot-flush fiction for the post-menstrual woman who could do with a damn good laugh at her life.


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PS… I wish to acknowledge another author, for we have things in common, such as Africa. Jeff Gardner‘s Igboland is nothing like my Breath of Africa, but we shared a talk at Crawley Library this year, to celebrate Black History Month, and we’ve also kept each other company at a book-signing. Can’t find that piece about Life and Culture in Kenya, which I sent to you as guest blogger, Jeff.  It seems to have disappeared into the ether along with two others this past year.

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Petersfield

PPS… I also shared a booksigning at the Solent with Nik Morton, prolific writer and editor, who wrote that fantastic review about my novel; and Richard Hardie and I shared a damp day in a tiny bookshop in Petersfield earlier this year (his website is magical, and his detective story for children very popular).

Thank you, one and all, for making my year swing along – enjoy your Christmas break, and may 2015 bring you success and happiness!

 

 

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Little More Than a Large Lake

Galilee_(2)

In Galilee, the pure peace and holiness of the Sea and its surroundings permeates the soul.

184 Mount of Beatitudes gardens

We climb the Mount of the Beatitudes to the Monastery. Stones inscribed with each Beatitude line the walkway between green lawns and gardens overlooking the Sea of Galilee. It is little more than a large lake. We enter a dim, hushed chapel, and a presiding nun holds a finger to her lips, reminding us of the seal of silence.

191 Plain Loaves church Nearby, the Church of the Multiplication of the Loaves is of plain modern design, full of light and entirely different.
196 Modern round church

A short bus ride takes us to Capernaum (“place of people”) where we admire the simple architecture of its hexagonal church, built above the traditional site of Peter’s home where Jesus started his ministry. We peer through the glass floor at the tiny, rough-hewn stone chamber, scarce providing room for two grown men to sleep. Some excavations nearby invite exploration, including the remains of an ancient temple. A striking statue of St.Peter, “The Rock” dominates the garden.

194 St Peter Then we head for the Sea of Galilee and our scheduled 45 minute boat ride.

201 From the boat

I’ll let this quote from “I Lift Up My Eyes” speak for itself.

“Eagerly, Ann waited in the queue to board the boat for their forty-five minute ride on the Sea of Galilee. It came to berth, blaring loud music as the previous group disembarked, chattering and laughing. Her enthusiastic bubble shattered in disappointment.

The captain greeted them as they took their seats round the padded sides of the motor boat.

“You want music?” he asked. “I have all kinds – spiritual, classical, jazz…”

Ann exchanged glances with her friends, and they politely declined.

The captain showed his disappointment.

“You want to stop in the middle of the lake?” he asked. “We turn off the music for time of silence and prayers.”

Ann preferred to pray silently. She had deliberately chosen not to join a religious pilgrimage for that reason, and was relieved to see that the others concurred.

“Yes, silence – but no music, and no prayers.”

The boat creaked away from the shore. Weak rays of sunlight penetrated the haze, and then burst through to bathe the waters with brightness as they neared the centre of the lake. Looking out over the water, Ann felt closer to the biblical ambience than in the bustle of commercial Christianity with its outward shows of sanctity. She could see the places where Jesus had been. There was the Mount of the Beatitudes, and the tiny village of Capernaum to the north. But the view to the Golan Heights in the east was hazy. She pictured in her mind’s eye the biblical herd of pigs possessed by a legion of demons, rushing down the hillside and drowning in the lake.

The captain cut the engine. Wavelets lapped softly against the side. Not a single bird call disturbed the silence. Ann’s body rocked with the gentle motion of the boat as she gazed into the distance.

God, where are you? Please show me your presence.

He was there, she knew. This was his place – the land where Jesus lived and taught his disciples to go out into the world and spread his word. She knew he was there, but within herself she felt nothing. Quietness, yes, even peace. But no thrills of ecstasy, no striking spear of enlightenment. Her head nodded to her chest, and her eyes closed in humble supplication.”

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Who Shall I Kill, and Why?

What is there about crime which so fascinates people? I love the suspense of a cracking whodunnit, and today I welcome author VALERIE LAWS to discuss her next book. Watch out you alpha males – she’s decided it’s time some men got murdered!

Valerie Laws#8

One of the perks of being a crime novelist is choosing to kill without fear of a criminal record. Having written an award-winning and fairly successful crime novel, THE ROTTING SPOT (‘a darkly intriguing debut’, Val McDermid), I then began to write the follow-up, THE OPERATOR, with this knotty question in mind. All of us fantasise (oh come on, I bet you do!) about bumping off, or at least in some way doing down those who have wronged us. The nasty belittling boss. The school bully who made our childhood a hiding-in-the-toilets misery. And of course, the Ex. Plenty of writers have turned their pain into gain by writing Mr Wrong, very cathartic, and unlike Revenge Porn, not illegal. I’ve read thinly disguised revenge murders of exes in colleagues’ books, and I’ve heard fellow poets at literary events shamelessly murdering in verse the image of an ex who sometimes is right there in the audience. Perhaps even more of a punishment, reading poems written at the height of the affair detailing their sexual technique…

Anyway, in choosing my next victims for THE OPERATOR, two powerful motives came into play. The first is sex, or at least gender, so commonly a motive for murder. I and some other crime writers/readers have become uneasy about the increasing amount of very detailed descriptions of torture, rape and murder of women in some crime fiction –  often young girls tied up in cellars at the mercy of psychopaths. I’m all about equal opportunities, so I decided it was time some men got murdered – not just any men, but alpha males, powerful high status men. Just to balance things out a bit.  Though I’m far too nice to have anything too torture-porny going on, so don’t worry. I do dark and I do a bit gruesome but I’m a post-mortem mutilation kinda gal.

The second motive for this choice was the theme I wanted to explore, which is why it’s doctors, specifically surgeons, who get the chop in my newest crime novel. THE OPERATOR partly arises from my own experience of being in hospital for three months with multiple fractures followed by years of medical treatment, after I was disabled in a car crash. The loss of autonomy, freedom and status involved is a horror story on its own! Yes, surgeons, consultants, usually male, who give you the worst of bad news while wearing a bow tie and, all to often, avoiding eye contact or showing even a homeopathic dose of empathy or concern. Think about it, I’m willing to bet you’ve either experienced or heard anecdotes aplenty:  about how a doctor didn’t listen, or was cold and inhuman at a crucial or tragic time for the patient, or got it wrong – yes they’re fallible, and yes many of them are terrific, but we need empathy when at our most vulnerable and facing major disastrous life changes. Deep grudges can result… And who has a right to hurt us a lot, get away with it, and still receive big salaries and even gratitude? Not just BDSM Doms, but Doctors. We all know what ‘Now, this won’t hurt’ means!

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So in THE OPERATOR, my twelfth book (I write in many genres), the second Erica Bruce and Detective Inspector Will Bennett mystery, an orthopaedic surgeon with a sadistic bent is murdered. Erica, herself a homeopath and alternative health journalist, wades in to protect his suspected soon-to-be-ex-wife, but soon it appears someone’s giving doctors a taste of their own medicine – murdering surgeons to mimic the operations they perform. Sexy DI Will Bennett is chasing the Operator, as the press call the serial killer as Erica locks horns with him at every turn, while the sexual chemistry between them sizzles like a hot poultice.

The medical world is right at the heart of the book. It’s a bit darker than the first one, but funnier and sexier too, with even more witty Tyneside banter. Some from Will’s colleagues, but much of it is from excess-loving ‘charva’ Stacey, who invaded the first book and has barged into the new one, Lambert & Butler in one hand, the night before’s high heels dangling from the other – though as she says, she doesn’t do the Walk of Shame, she gets ‘taxis, man!’ The setting is the north east coast of England, near Newcastle upon Tyne, and the actual mouth of the Tyne itself is the setting for a dramatic set piece where the ever-present North Sea, almost a character in its own right, shows what it can do to test Erica to the limit.

I’ve been researching the science of dying for several years in a series of Writer’s Residencies in pathology museums, brain institutes, dissection labs etc, and this has also contributed to my crime fiction. I know quite a lot about death and dead bodies! I still read crime novels where the corpse’s ‘expression’ tells the cop that they knew what was coming or were terrified, when dead people have no expression at all regardless of their manner of demise, though there may be a few specific poisons which distort muscle tissue of course.

I have four of my now thirteen books on Kindle, including Jane Austen comedy spoof LYDIA BENNET’S BLOG and my poetry of sex, death and pathology collection, ALL THAT LIVES, as well as the two crime novels. The crime novels and my newest poetry collection THE FACEBOOK OF THE DEAD can be ordered via my website or from my publisher, post-free in the UK, from www.redsquirrelpress.com.

Links:

THE OPERATOR Kindle UK ;  THE OPERATOR Kindle US

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THE ROTTING SPOT Kindle UK ; THE ROTTING SPOT Kindle US

Valerie Laws Amazon author page

Valerie Laws website

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