Category Archives: Writer Interviews

SUNDAY SCENE: LUCY MORRIS ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM TEMPTED BY HER OUTCAST VIKING

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My latest book ‘Tempted by her Outcast Viking’, begins in Viking age York, known at the time as Jorvik.

York has a special place in my heart as I went to university there. It’s a beautiful historic city, and still remains quite small in size. Walking through its old town you can easily imagine what it would have been like throughout the ages. Roman walls surround it and medieval architecture is down every narrow-gobbled alley.

Jorvik was a well-established city well before it fell to the Vikings. But the Norse made it into a successful trading centre that rivalled all others. Silks, spices and precious gems from across the world were bought and sold within its walls.

I wanted to reflect the global reach of the Norse trading routes with my character Erik, a man with a pitiful upbringing. His father is a powerful Jarl, and his mother was a captured Persian from the middle east. Trading with his half-brother has finally paid for his freedom, but after his father’s horrific treatment, Erik only longs for a peaceful future with a wife and children.

But that has to wait, because a woman from his past needs his help, and he needs her forgiveness:

Anger raced through her like lightning, burning away all reason.

She grabbed him by his broad shoulders and thrust him against the nearest wall. His hands in response locked around her biceps to steady himself, his grip firm, but not painful, and the heat that radiated from his fingers only angered her further, because of the effect it had on her. It caused her body to warm and her breath to catch in her throat, shivers of longing twisted in her gut and she thrust him back a second time, the plaster on the little house cracking and crumbling with the force.

‘I don’t like you!’ she snarled, ‘I’ve never liked you! So, let’s make this very clear. I do not care if you are sorry or not! Just do as you’ve promised and get my mother a damn farm!’

They stared at one another, their breathing heavy and the tension between them thick in the silence. Their big bodies filled the space of the alley, making the wattle and daub buildings seem even more fragile and small, neither of them willing to back down, their bodies held in a tight balance of frustration and stubborn pride.

The dark pools of his eyes locked with hers and then dropped ever so slowly to her mouth. ‘There was a time when you liked me…’

 

 

Go to www.LucyMorrisRomance.com for more information, and to sign up to my newsletter.

SUNDAY SCENE: JANE BHEEMAH ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM HER PRIZE WINNING SHORT STORY

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‘Under the Spreading Oak’ is a story that’s been in my head for a while, just waiting to be told. Then earlier this year Blue Poppy Publishing ran a short story competition – calling for Devon writers and a Devon based theme – and I found a fit. Quite simply, it was a joy to write. Set in Powderham Castle’s beautiful deer park, it’s told from the perspective of an ancient oak. A descriptive piece, it depicts life in the deer park, the change of seasons and some of the people who have taken shelter under its spreading boughs.

The story is – well, a story, though the place is real enough. I was lucky enough to grow up in the estuary village of Starcross, not far from Powderham. In my mind’s eye, while penning the story, I was revisiting childhood walks through the deer park with my beloved Nan. Stories do that to you sometimes, don’t they, trigger nostalgic memories. This one certainly did for me!

I’ve walked through the deer park as a teenager, too, when – like other local youngsters – I had school summer holiday jobs at the Castle tea rooms. The path was more of a track then, still a public right of way, but not opened up for ramblers as it is now. There must have been rainy days, of course, but all I remember is sunlight dancing through a canopy of leaves and a chorus of birdsong. The old gatekeeper’s cottage is gone; in its place is a café and farm shop.

The best ideas come when I’m out and about. Nature never fails to inspire, and I’ve always been enchanted by ancient trees and the stories they could tell, if only they could speak – imagine the history witnessed under their silent watch! And, mighty and majestic, there is something special about the undisputed king of the forest.

Here’s an extract from the opening paragraph of ‘Under the Spreading Oak.’

“The last vestiges of night cloak the woods in shadow. No sound, save for the tramp of boots as the gamekeeper makes his pre-dawn round, checking on the pheasants in their pens. Its hunt disturbed, a fox slinks by, picking up a new scent as the rabbit it almost had slinks into a burrow.”

The icing on the cake: not only did my story ‘Under the Spreading Oak’ do well in the competition I’m delighted to say that it was included in an anthology and published by N. Devon based Blue Poppy Publishing this summer.  It’s a little gem of a book, titled: ‘The Cream of Devon, An Anthology of Short Stories From the County that Rhymes with Heaven.’

Now I will let my story speak again:

“A May morning like any other. My branches reach up to the cerulean sky. There’s a shimmer of mist over the Exe now. Here in the Powderham deer park, set in deepest Devon, the seasons come and go like an eternal wheel. I’m one of the forest giants, standing sentinel and watching the days unfurl. I’ve lost count of the springs I’ve seen as the cold earth warms and a carpet of bluebells spreads out on the woodland floor. All life is played out here.”

I also write novels as Kathryn Haydon, the pen name chosen as a nod to my mum.  She would have been thrilled to know about my Powderham themed story!

Below is a link to my Facebook Author Page, for those who would like to take a peep. You’ll find me there as Kathryn Haydon.

https://www.facebook.com/flickypenpot

Warm wishes and happy reading.

SUNDAY SCENE: ALEX STONE ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM THE OTHER GIRLFRIEND

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The Other Girlfriend is my second psychological thriller set in Dorset. After a weekend away at Durdle Door ends in tragedy, Lizzie’s world falls part and she battles with anxiety and agoraphobia.

Agoraphobia is so often misunderstood and assumed to be a fear of open spaces, but, as Lizzie discovers, in reality it is so much more and any situation or place where it difficult to escape from can become a trigger for panic attacks.

 

My heart pounded and my legs felt weak, as though they would give way at any moment. All I had to do was open the front door, step outside and walk down the driveway to the car. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t difficult.

Except it was.

‘What are you standing there for?’ Mum asked, giving me a nudge forward. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

I side stepped out of the way, allowing her to pass. She cast a sideways glance at me before reaching for the latch and pulling the door open. I stared out at the world beyond the threshold. Somehow it seemed as though all the oxygen was slipping away through the open door. My breathing became laboured. Quick shallow gasps that didn’t satisfy my lungs.

I heard Mum sigh. The patience she was trying to hold onto was starting to slip. I had to get it together. I couldn’t fall apart in front of her. Not again.

I fought to regain control. But it wasn’t working.

Nothing worked.

The hallway dipped and swayed. Everything started to blur. Tears streamed down my face. I wasn’t even sure why I was crying. It was just a door. Just a driveway. I wanted to run away. To hide. But I couldn’t.

My feet were welded to the spot. I couldn’t move. Dark patches appeared at the edges of my vision. I was going to pass out. I could feel it.

‘Don’t start that nonsense.’ There was an edge of frustration to her tone. ‘We haven’t got time for it.’

I nodded, obediently, as a loud sob escaped. She was right. It was nonsense. I was being stupid. It was just the driveway. The same driveway I had walked down nearly every day for my whole life.

And yet somehow it was no longer the same. I was no longer the same.

Mum couldn’t understand. She’d tried. She was still trying. But the daughter she’d known had simply disappeared. All she was left with was this shell of my former self. Sad. Tearful. Panicked.

She couldn’t understand why. She couldn’t figure out how to fix it. How to fix me.

With every day that passed I became more reclusive and she became more frantic. My failure somehow became her failure. It was a mother’s job to keep her kids safe and well, that’s what she said. But she couldn’t make me well. Plasters and paracetamol wouldn’t work this time. Eighteen years of experience as a mother hadn’t prepared her for this.

Mum thrust smelling salts under my nose. I flinched as my eyes smarted. But I inhaled deeply. I took the little brown glass bottle from her and clung to it, wafting it back and forth below my nose as the darkness gradually faded into grey.

‘Just don’t think about it,’ Mum said as she hooked her arm through mine and pulled me forward, escorting me outside, while my body trembled and each breath rasped in my chest.

It had become her favourite phrase. I wasn’t even sure what it was I wasn’t supposed to think about.

I don’t think she knew either.

 

 

 

SUNDAY SCENE: NATALIE NORMANN ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM SUMMER ISLAND

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When I was asked if I could write a contemporary romance set in Norway, I jumped at the opportunity. I didn’t have a story, but I knew the perfect setting.

I love islands, but I couldn’t make up my mind which one of my favourite places to use, and I ended up making my own fictional island. From that, came Summer Island with it’s quirky characters and the best part of Norwegian summers.

It was the perfect place for a romance between two people with broken hearts who think they have lost what they loved most.

Ninni Torp comes to her beloved island to heal from the biggest shock in her life, only to find there are bigger suprises in store for her.

I also had great fun dropping a big city boy in an unfamiliar environment. Jack Greene arrives from London to sell the farm he has inherited, and finds the experience more than a little strange.  Like here in this scene, where he gets into a rowing boat for the first time.

 

Jack looked at Frikk with a wary expression on his face. The dog looked back at him, ears up, tail down.

‘Are you sure he’s friendly?’

‘Are you scared of dogs?’ Ninni smiled at him.

Jack kept a watchful eye on Frikk. ‘No, not really. I’m not used to them, that’s all. We never had any pets. My brother is allergic.’

Ninni turned to Frikk. ‘Say hello to Jack, Frikk.’

The dog lifted a paw and Jack, after a moment’s hesitation, shook it. ‘That’s pretty good,’ he said and smiled.

Ninni laughed. ‘He has excellent manners. Better than most people, I think.’

She climbed into the boat, keeping it steady by standing with her legs apart. ‘Come on, Frikk, jump in.’

The dog looked at Jack, seemed to grin at him, and then jumped. Ninni grabbed him and lifted him to the front. She looked up at Jack. ‘Come on.’

Jack hesitated. ‘Are you sure that thing is safe?’

‘My word, you are a scaredy-cat. Don’t worry, if you fall while getting into the boat you can’t drown. That’s what the life jacket is for.’

She held out a hand, but Jack ignored it. Copying her, he carefully stepped into the boat, then sat down. He stretched out his hands and grabbed hold of the gunwale on both sides.

Ninni didn’t say anything. It wasn’t nice to make fun of someone sitting in a boat for the first time, no matter how hilarious he looked. He seemed so sure of himself on land and now he sat there, staring at the water as if it was going to attack him.

She sat down in the aft and pulled the cord to the engine a couple of times. It spluttered and then started.

The wind was coming from the south and the water was a bit choppy. The bow jumped on the waves and Frikk had a grand time barking at them.

Jack turned pale.

Ninni leaned forward. ‘Are you seasick?’

‘No.’ He shook his head, then turned a shade greener.

 

I can’t even express how much fun I had writing the two books in A Very Hygge Holiday: Summer Island, and the sequel Christmas Island.

SUNDAY SCENE: LIZ FENWICK ON THE HELFORD RIVER AS A SETTING FOR HER NOVELS

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I first visited the Helford River in June 1989 and it has held my heart since then. It has become my muse, or a major part of it at least. It is difficult to write about this part of Cornwall without reference to the river. It pulls you in as much as the moon pulls the tide in. My first six novels are set on both the north and the south side of the river and this coming Spring my latest novel, The Secret Shore, returns there once more, this time set in 1942. The protagonist Merry Tremayne was born on the south side on a farm just above Frenchman’s Creek. From her early explorations of the many creeks that feed the river she draws her very first map. This is the start of her life journey that many woman of her time did not and could not travel.

It was a challenge to look at the river through Merry’s eyes as I am so accustomed to viewing it through my own. But a setting only has true meaning when seen through the eyes of those viewing it. With each novel I have had to look at this familiar landscape and yet see it anew. In my debut, The Cornish House, it was fun to look at the area through the eyes of a stroppy London teenager. All Hannah could see was an empty landscape devoid of her former luxuries such as a decent latte and all she could smell was the air reeking of cow shit! Whereas Gabe in A Cornish Stranger experienced the area through the river’s sounds… the shrill cries of the wading birds at low tide and the soft wind in the Eucalyptus trees.

Merry is an Oxford geographer who doesn’t simply see fields and hills, but their structure, composition and development. She only notices their true beauty when she thinks of her mother Elise, an artist. It is Elise’s view which causes Merry’s analytical mind to stop every so often, enabling her to pause and see the elegance beyond the facts and figures.

Standing high on the plateau above the Helford, I watched the world change from the indistinct shapes of dawn to the defined ones of the day and I recalled my mother’s search for what she described as impossible light. It was the moment when the beauty was so sharp, so clear it hurt and broke into your mind and your soul giving everything new meaning. The only thing she had been able to compare it to was when she fell in love with my father. In that moment of understanding, her perception of everything changed.

When writing about landscape it’s important for me to be in my character’s mind because what the character sees also reveals her point of view. Does she pick out the light or does she notice how rundown things are? Victoria in Under A Cornish Sky sees the landscape through history and folklore whereas when Merry is on the river she experiences it quite differently.

This old canoe had provided Oliver and I with endless trips on the Helford and around its creeks while we pretended that we were travelling on the Amazon, or the Nile, or the Yangtze. The bending oaks and hollies had become far more exotic and dangerous.

The joy of writing is that with each book and each character I can take a fresh look at the landscape around me and discover something totally new. I appreciate it all the more for the experience.

 

 

www.lizfenwick.com

 

 

SUNDAY SCENE: JAN BAYNHAM ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM HER NANNY’S SECRET

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My third book, ‘Her Nanny’s Secret’, is a dual timeline novel, set in wartime and the sixties in rural mid-Wales and Normandy. It involves secrets, forbidden love, loss, and hope. In the 1963 story, my main character, Annie, travels to France with Clara Pryce to whom she was nanny when she was younger. Clara’s father had been shot down over Normandy in June 1943. Now as an adult, Clara is keen to try to find out what happened to him and where he’s buried. My chosen scene in the novel is when Annie accompanies Clara to Ville de Roi, a town near where her father’s Spitfire fighter plane had been shot down. It’s her first day and I want to capture Annie’s reactions to French life, seeing it through the eyes of someone who had never been to France before.

As she and Clara approach the town, ‘the sea sparkled like a mirror in the afternoon sun’ to the left; ‘coves and inlets surprised her around each bend’ in the road. Once parked, they wander through the streets, eventually choosing a pretty crepêrie where they can have lunch.

La Belle Epoque was situated down a narrow, cobbled street branching off from the main square. Outside, tables, covered with red-and-white tablecloths, and bentwood chairs were placed along each of the two large windows. Ornamental fruit trees in brightly glazed pots separated each table.

‘Is it warm enough to sit outside, do you think?’ asked Clara.

Just being able to sit out in the fresh air to eat is a new experience for Annie. A real treat. None of the cafés in Pen-y-Rhos have outdoor seating.

They sat down and studied the menu. Annie had never seen such a choice and couldn’t decide from the images between a savoury galette filled with ham and cheese, topped with a fried egg, or, to satisfy her sweet tooth, a crêpe, oozing with cooked local apples and whipped cream.

Clara laughed at her indecision and Annie wondered if her eyes were as wide as she felt them to be.

Back home, pancakes are only eaten on Shrove Tuesday and then always with lemon juice and white sugar.

Later in the scene, they come to a central square where a group of elderly men are playing a game Annie hadn’t seen before.

‘Pétanque,’ said Clara. ‘It’s very popular in this part of France.’

They found a bench and watched the game in progress. One man threw a small white ball onto the dusty gravel, a ‘jack’ Clara called it. In turn, each player threw a larger silver coloured ball, a boule, as close to the jack as they could. The men became more animated as the game went on especially when someone’s boule knocked another’s further away from the jack.

‘Every village will have a square for pétanque. Can you see how earnestly the old men take the game? You must never disturb a player when they’re about to throw.’ Clara laughed, waving a finger.

Clara explains to her that even the smallest village in France would have a square and a town hall, a mairie. Annie can’t get over how many cafés and bars there were in one place.

Pretty window boxes adorned the upstairs windows and scarlet summer geraniums and tumbling blue lobelia gave a blaze of colour.

During the rest of her time in France, Annie is to encounter many more new experiences. In the search for Clara’s father, she could never have imagined the outcome of the visit. Keeping her secret for over twenty years is justified at last.

 

https://janbaynham.blogspot.com

 

SUNDAY SCENE: ANGELA BARTON ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM SPRING BREEZE

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I love the freedom of writing fiction. I construct imaginary buildings and places, create characters, invent stories for them and decide how they’ll react to the obstacles I put in front of them. I forge their relationships, decide who they’ll fall in love with and I determine their outcome. But over the years as my writing has evolved, I like to include real events from history, real people who were alive at the time of my story, and real objects. In Spring Breeze, Irène Némirovsky and Picasso make appearances and interact with my characters, but my excerpt below is about an object.

A great deal of responsibility comes with including actual people or objects in a book. Research has to be thorough and accurate, then entwined into the storyline without sounding like a history lesson! I never enjoyed history at school. Every time I was given homework is was to learn a seemingly endless list of names and dates. I wanted dramatic stories, heroes and heroines. I wanted adventure, romance and excitement. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I became a writer. Now I can make my own stories whilst adding a touch of realism and history to them.

My protagonist in Spring Breeze is Matilde Pascale. She used to work in an auction house before the German invasion caused its closure. Forced into working for the enemy at the Jeu de Paume museum in Paris, Matilde discovered an object she’s been asked to log; a priceless artefact from history. Imagine the scene. Matilde has been led to the basement of the Jeu de Paume museum where the Germans are storing looted valuables: jewellery, antiques, paintings, ornaments etc. It’s gloomy, lit by dim bare light bulbs, it’s eerily quiet except for the faint echoes of footfall on the floor above her, and she’s alone in the vast storage room.

 

Kneeling, Matilde placed her notepad and pen on the floor. Whatever could it be? She touched it. It felt solid. She peeled back its wrapping and saw material that had been rolled tightly. She found one end but it was too heavy to unroll. She followed a fold, running her fingers along its length and gradually teasing out the material until she had enough to fold it back. Slowly she peeled back a corner to reveal embroidery. The workmanship was exquisite, in vibrant colours and Latin inscriptions. The material felt like linen and smelt musty, like walking into an old church. Looking closely she could see that it had been sprinkled with moth powder. She unfolded a little more: a horse, a man with a sword, arrows. The figures were immediately so individual and so identifiable that her mouth fell open. Her eyes, now wide with wonder and horror, took in what lay before her on the floor.

It was the Bayeux Tapestry.

Matilde knelt reverentially before the giant roll of fabric and pulled on her gloves. She gently laid her palm against the cloth, leaned forward and smelled it. A frisson of awe forced her to close her eyes and wonder at the history this tapestry had seen. It had been associated with such bellicose men as William the Conqueror and Napoleon Bonaparte. It had survived the French Revolution in the 18th century and withstood examinations and transportations.

 

www.angelabarton.net

 

SUNDAY SCENE: SUZANNE SNOW ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM SNOWFALL OVER HALESMERE HOUSE

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Inspiration for me often begins with the setting and I knew I had found my characters’ home when I visited this gorgeous house and garden in Cumbria. Soon I could envision Ella and Max here and picture their story unfolding around me. The scene I’ve chosen to share is set on a Sunday evening when Ella is feeling tense and alone in the house on her first weekend at Halesmere. Active by nature, she heads out into the frosty night for a walk in the grounds to settle herself before bed:

 

Not a thing seemed to be stirring when Ella reached the empty lane; she felt like the only person awake and watching the world at this hour. She really ought to go back to bed; midnight would soon be past, and she couldn’t spend the night marching up and down the drive.

She heard Prim before she saw her as she neared the house. She saw the dog freeze, then her tail shot up and Prim barked once, cautiously, then let out a volley of noise that had Max running after her.

‘Prim, shut up, there’s nothing there,’ he hissed. ‘Be quiet, you’ll wake the kids up.’

Ella had been looking for a tree or convenient spot where she might hide, but it was too late. Prim had found her and immediately swapped the barking for a madly wagging tail and a desperate wish to put her paws on Ella’s shoulders.

‘Who’s there?’ Max called sharply.

‘It’s me.’ She stepped forward, offering a quick smile she wasn’t sure Max would see through the dark. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to set Prim off like that.’

‘Ella! You had me worried for a minute, Prim’s never barked like that before.’

‘Just doing her job, aren’t you, girl.’ Ella stroked the dog leaning against her legs.

‘I suppose.’ Max was wearing a T shirt over lounging trousers, and he shivered. ‘It’s pretty late to be out for a stroll. Couldn’t sleep?’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Walking usually helps.’

‘I work rather than walk when I can’t sleep.’ He wrapped his arms across his body. ‘Not so easy for me to leave the house.’

‘Of course.’ She thought of his children, cosy in their beds. ‘But doesn’t working too many hours late at night just make you more tired?’

‘Yeah.’ She saw the gleam of his smile. ‘But I’ve got two excellent alarm clocks who like crashing on my head first thing, so there’s not much danger of me sleeping in.’

A gorgeous new image jumped into Ella’s mind, one featuring Max being woken with cuddles and love every morning by Lily and Arlo tumbling over him. ‘You’re not still working?’

‘Just finished. I let Prim out last thing before I head up.’ Max stamped his feet, blew out a breath. ‘It’s freezing. You don’t fancy a hot drink, do you?’

Not wise, Ella, she told herself. Not wise at all. But exactly what she wanted and quite possibly just what she needed. ‘I’d love one. Maybe not coffee though.’

‘No problem. I do a mean hot chocolate, and I could throw in a shot of brandy to warm us up.’

‘Perfect.’ It was, and Prim seemed delighted to be escorting Ella safely into the cottage instead of seeing her back to the silent house.

 

I loved writing this scene as it marks a change in Ella and Max’s relationship as they begin to understand one another and the circumstances which have led them to Halesmere House in search of new beginnings.

 

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