Monday, 5 June 2017

On the House

My fourth novel, Shadows, is about to be published, by Endeavour Press. Honestly, any moment now.

So meanwhile, about Shadows… I write about crimes that have repercussions down the years and families in crisis, as I always do, but this one has a slightly Gothic twist, and a setting that is slightly more Gothic, to match. I have returned to North Pembrokeshire, my home, having had a ramble out to the Home Counties in Motherlove and The Unravelling and once more I am centring my story on a house. Not a derelict cottage, as in A Time For Silence. No, no, this time I’m doing something entirely different. This time it’s a derelict mansion, Llys y Garn.

In fact, the story features several houses, because, in case you hadn’t noticed, I really do like houses and all the history wrapped up in them: the mystery under the wallpaper.

Llys y Garn, the house at the centre of the book – in fact you could call it the main character in the book –is mostly a Victorian house that has slowly decayed around its former owner, an elderly recluse. When I first moved to Pembrokeshire, in the 1980s, the countryside was littered with such slowly decaying mansions, hidden from view, just off the road and lost in deep woods. They conjure up a lost world of squires and county society with hunt balls and croquet on the lawn. A world where peasants doffed their caps and respected their betters. That’s a world long gone, and the grand houses are now either totally derelict or have been put to new uses as nursing homes, hotels or art centres. One that was just up the road from me back then, empty after a serious fire, was Rhosygilwen, which has now been transformed into a thriving centre for cultural activities, weddings, concerts and the Penfro Literary Festival.
There were dozens of others around me – Coedmor, Cilwendeg, Ffynone, Cilgwyn, Glandovan, Llwyngwair…

They may appear to be Georgian or Victorian, but study the records and they all have roots going back to the Middle Ages. Here and there, among more modest houses in the area, you still find relics of older times. A farmhouse still has a massive Tudor door. Another has Jacobean panelling and plasterwork. A youth centre has a barn that was once a Tudor gatehouse.

My fictional Llys y Garn has a past too. Adjoining the Victorian house is a Mediaeval great hall, with panelling (oh, definitely panelling), and an undercroft that might, just might, once have been a dungeon.

There’s also a lodge cottage. Well, Llys y Garn is a mansion and all mansions have lodge cottages, where one of those cap-doffing peasants can usher the master safely back to his property, and slam the gates on the great unwashed outside. The lodge cottage I really had in mind is somewhere in Oxfordshire or Gloucestershire. Mini-Palladian – I used to pass it on my way across country to Aberystwyth university. But round here in Pembrokeshire, there are plenty of them, usually quaintly pretentious, or just quaint.

And then there’s a roundhouse in the book. A reconstructed iron-age roundhouse, which I can envisage without any trouble, because there happen to be some reconstructed iron-age roundhouses just around the corner from me, at Castell Henllys. It is my firm belief that they move around at night, when no one is watching.

Oh, and there’s a yurt, because this is Pembrokeshire and it’s the sort of thing you might find in a wood round here.

I haven’t included a castle, of which Pembrokeshire has many, some still lived in, but as Llys y Garn stands on the slope of a valley adjoining the Preselis (totally fictional, but picture the Gwaun valley if you like), there are, naturally, ancient standing stones on the hills above.

Seriously, anything could happen here. And probably has.

Monday, 1 May 2017

It's a crime

I took part in an interesting crime-writers panel at the Llandeilo LitFest last Saturday, which inspired me to ponder on the strange appeal of crime in fiction. Why do people, who have no intention to commit crime and no desire to fall victim to it, choose to read about it in fictional settings?

Of course there’s crime and there’s crime. Fiction tends not to dwell on crimes like parking on a double yellow line or shop lifting or tax evasion, and the reason is not just that such crimes are boring. Many people would feel that the law might make such action criminal but, well, you know, if there were an absolute guarantee of getting away it, maybe they might, just might, park on that line,  Pay by cash to avoid something going through the books, or even walk off without paying for something that slipped through at the till.

The crimes that feature in fiction are different. Murder. Rape. Abduction. Child Abuse. They are more than crimes. They are taboos. Even if the Law had no opinion on them, most of us would shrink from committing them because we understand at the deepest level that they are wrong. How the taboo develops is open to debate. Some people might say they are forbidden by God and that is written in our DNA. We apply words like Sin and Evil. Others might say that they are instincts drilled into us so deeply from birth by parents, schools, church and society in general, that we don’t question them. Whatever the source of the taboos, we know that to overturn them is to overthrow all security. If you knew, with absolute certainty, that you could commit a murder and not be punished, would you do it? I suspect that 99% would say NO!

And yet murders happen. People do break that taboo. Perhaps, if you found yourself pushed over the edge, you too could break it. Maybe our fascination in fiction is something to do releasing the dark waters that swirl in us, deep down below that taboo. It’s there in all of us. Murders are committed by sociopaths and psychopaths and the mentally disturbed – people who simply fail to share in that taboo – but the majority of murders are committed by very ordinary people who probably never dreamed they’d ever do such a thing. The majority of murders are not carefully planned but are a desperate result of a string of wrong decisions. Any of us could find ourselves in that position. So could everyone around us. It’s a scary thought.

That scariness is the appeal of crime fiction. We want to live secure and safe and happy, without worrying about what might lie around the corner, but we need to treat ourselves to a dose of scariness that won’t really put us at risk. Somewhere under our civilised veneers are primitive people whose survival programming needs to keep adrenalin on tap, ready to run like Hell when something growls in the undergrowth. Crime fiction is an adrenalin switch, that gives us a nice healthy jolt occasionally, without seriously disturbing our sleep. Because, best of all, it is fiction. It may be, should be, True in a literary sense, but it’s not actually real.

Monday, 23 January 2017

Interview with Juliet Greenwood

Here is another of my interviews with my favourite writers. Today, it's Juliet Greenwood, a fellow Honno author, whose books are set in Cornwall, London and Wales in Victorian and Edwardian times, following the lives of strong, independently-minded women struggling to find freedom and self-fulfilment. Her novels have reached #4 and #5 in the UK Amazon Kindle store, while ‘Eden’s Garden’ was a finalist for ‘The People’s Book Prize’. ‘We That are Left’ was completed with a Literature Wales Writers’ Bursary.

Juliet’s great grandmother worked as a nail maker in Lye Waste, near Birmingham in the Black Country, hammering nails while rocking the cradle with her foot. Juliet’s grandmother worked her way up to become a cook in a big country house. Their stories have left Juliet with a passion for history, and in particular for the experiences of women, so often overlooked or forgotten. Juliet lives in a traditional cottage in Snowdonia, in the UK, and loves gardening and walking.

Juliet's Books

Eden’s Garden
When Carys returns to her childhood home in Snowdonia, to look after her mother, she finds herself drawn back too into her family history, an old romance and the mysteries of Plas Eden, the decaying great house and its mysterious statues.
Her story runs parallel with that of Ann, a gifted artist at the end of the Victorian era, who discovers the hard way that a woman can have a rich husband, a beautiful house and a place in society, but she’s still just property, to be disposed of as her husband wishes… unless she fights to regain her own identity.

We That Are Left
Elin Helstone lives in a grand Cornish mansion, Hiram House, with little to do but be an elegant wife to Hugo, a damaged veteran of the Boer War. The outbreak of the Great War breaks up their cold comfortable world, as Hugo goes off to fight, but it also opens up the possibility, for Elin, her cousin Alice, and her friend Mouse (Lady Margaret Northolme), to discover what they, as women, can do. Elin ceases to be an ornament. She becomes the manager of an estate responsible for feeding the community. Alice takes work in a hospital and the indomitable Mouse ferries supplies to France. When disaster threatens, Elin rises to the challenge. And when the war ends, and more domestic dangers arise, she will find the strength to deal with them.

The White Camellia
Two women have an intense personal interest in the Tressillion estate in Cornwall. Bea has grown up there, daughter of a wealthy, powerful family whose bankruptcy has left her virtually homeless, seeking a career and self-determination in London. Sybil, who left the area years before, has become a wealthy hotelier in America, and wants to buy it.
While Bea, attempting to find employment as a journalist, becomes involved in the suffrage movement, centring on the White Camellia tearoom, Sybil begins to reopen an ill-fated mine at Tressillion. It’s the mine that killed Bea’s father and brothers, and its secrets will bring the two women together.

Here is my interview with Juliet

Q. Would you call your books, first and foremost, historical novels or romances or mysteries? Or do you think they defy definition?

I think I would call my books historical novels, with some romance, and a touch of mystery! Apart from my timeshift, ‘Eden’s Garden’, which is set in contemporary and Victorian times, my books tend to be set in the Victorian and Edwardian eras. I write about independently-minded women finding their own path, which of course includes romance – a particularly angst-ridden subject in eras when women had few other options than marriage for financial survival, when they generally married barely out of their teens with very little experience of life, no contraception, and with no way out if it all turned out to be a terrible mistake. My books are also about families, their conflicts and relationships, and so there is always a family mystery in the background to be resolved. In ‘We That are Left’ it comes as Elin finally understands the reason for her husband’s behaviour, while in ‘The White Camellia’ it is a family feud, rumbling through the generations that threatens to destroy the characters.

Q. You write about women, in different ages, facing different problems, but they are all strong, feisty, independent characters, who refuse to surrender. Do you identify with any one of them more than the others? Which is your favourite?

Oh, my goodness, that is a hard one to answer! I think, like most writers, all of my heroines, although they are all very different from me, have a little bit of myself in them. As most writers know, it takes dogged stubbornness to be published. My Yorkshire dad used to call me ‘occud’ (as in awkward/stubborn) (it was not a compliment), so I suppose that theme runs through my heroines! Growing up in the sixties and seventies, when women were still generally expected to be decorous and domestic (I’m neither), I definitely identify with their struggles to break free from stultifying expectations, particularly the struggle to gain the confidence to realise you are competent and to grab life with both hands. I feel that, largely because of this past, it’s something women are still battling with today.

I love Anne, the Victorian heroine of Eden’s Garden, and Elin, the heroine of We That are Left for their journey from being the women society expects them to be to discovering their own strengths, and their own humanity. Elin, in particular, starts as a child-bride, but, through her experiences in the Great War, becomes one hell of a woman. At the moment though, my favourite has to be Sybil, the heroine of The White Camellia. She’s a woman in her thirties, who has experience, and oodles of baggage, behind her, and has make terrible mistakes that haunt her throughout the story. She’s the most complex and troubled of my heroines, and I love her for all her strengths and her foibles and her dogged determination to keep on battling and protect those she loves.

Q. All the books take place, at least in part, in Cornwall, though you live in North Wales. Why is that? What is its allure? Is Cornwall particularly important to you?

Cornwall and Snowdonia, both lands of rugged romance

I love Cornwall! I’ve spent many happy holidays there, more often than not with a tent on my back. It’s very different from London, where I lived for a while both a child and an adult, and the mountainous beauty of North Wales. Although from my office in the hills I can see Anglesey, whose coastline is very similar to Cornwall in many places. The combination of mountains and sea is my idea of heaven (with London only a few hours away for a quick blast of city streets, naturally!)

Q. Your novels have delved in depth into World War I, Victorian health care, Women’s suffrage tearooms, recipes, market gardening, mining… How much research do you do, before you embark on a book? How much does it influence what you write? Do you ever find it too painful to use?

I tend to be attracted to the lesser-known stories of women’s role in historical events. Once I get an idea, I tend to do some general research, and then research in more detail once I’ve written the first draft and know exactly the detailed information I need. I find reading the background the most fascinating, there’s so much of women’s history we just don’t know.

Before I began researching for ‘We That are Left’ I had no idea how daring and active women were in the Great War, nursing on the front line while bombs fell, talking their way out of capture by the German army, and even working behind the lines as spies and rescuing soldiers who had been wounded or separated from their regiments, sometimes taking them over the Alps to avoid the border guards.

It was the same with ‘The White Camellia’. I’d heard of the suffragettes, but I knew very little of the suffrage movement that battled for over fifty years to not only achieve votes for all women and men (most of whom were also unable to vote before the 1880s), but also had huge successes in gaining rights for women when it came to property, custody of children, and even the right to earn (and keep) an income, as well as establishing that women fell into prostitution through starvation, rather than to lure virtuous sailors to a minor lapse in behaviour. The suffrage ladies also fought against the trafficking of young girls for the sex trade, and began the fight for equal pay. There are so many amazing women I’d never heard of, and to whom we owe so much for the rights and freedoms we take for granted today. And yes, there is some research I find too painful to use. In ‘The White Camellia’ one of the characters tries to photograph a suffragette march and is thrown into prison. I read some pretty graphic accounts of the violence and abuse women were subjected to, both on marches and in prison, which I chose not to use.

I’m currently researching Victorian trafficking of young girls, some of which is definitely far too upsetting to use. I’m telling a story, not a history lesson, and I feel that sometimes it is easier to simply describe horrors, rather than to take your characters through their survival and out to the other side. I always give a reading list for anyone who wishes to know more – but I strongly feel that women are still underestimated as life’s incredible survivors, and that is the bit that really interests me, rather than rubbing my readers noses in horrors (I find life quite scary enough as it is).

Q. All your books focus on a big house, often decaying, and its grounds, islands complete in themselves, slightly adrift in the heart of the real world. Is that down to a personal fascination with such places or is it a metaphor for the personal dramas that are happening there? They are all extremely atmospheric. Which of them would you choose to live in, if you could?

I love old houses. I spent much of my childhood in a cottage in the wilds of Wales with no amenities (yes, it really was candles, oil lamps, a coal fire and a loo at the bottom of the garden), which was filled with the history of families surviving in the harshness of a remote and mountainous location. It both gave a heightened focus on the family unit, but also highlighted the changes in the wider world. I still love electricity, hot water, and no longer having to run the gauntlet of (imaginary) wolves and bears in a howling gale! I love big old houses, both to visit and as a setting, because they offer similar stories on a wider scale – and they have gardens, for which I have a passion (it shows). I particularly love the crumbling variety of old house, so I think that if I were to choose one of the houses in my books, it would have to be Plas Eden, the fading mansion with the statues waiting in its grounds for their mystery to be resolved. The possibility for stories is just endless …

Juliet at Bodnant Gardens

Brondanw and Gwydir Castle

 Perhaps North Wales and Snowdonia have a lot in common; the gardens of Trebah in Cornwall and Portmeirion in Snowdonia

Q. What are you working on next?

A woman doctor in Victorian times, battling to be accepted in a world where female doctors are almost unheard of, and with her own inner demons to overcome …  And more than that, my lips are sealed.

Juliet's links

Sunday, 18 December 2016

Short Intermission

My first venture into indie publishing has happened – although in a very small way, and it is closely related to my novels published by Honno. Moments of Consequence is a book of short stories, and it’s there because I’ve written books and got them out there, I like writing books and getting them out there and it becomes a bit addictive. The more you write, the more you want to write. In the hiatus between the publication of my last novel (The Unravelling) and wondering what to do with my next, I had to have another fix.
Some of the stories have been around for a few years. One story, The Accountant, was my first ever publishing success, back in 2010, since it was voted Winner by the readers of a short story magazine called Debut. No harm in giving it another airing.

Some stories are ghost stories. Since I am a writer of “Domestic Noir,” I reckon there’s nothing more nourish than a ghost story. Or nothing more domestic than stories about houses and the secrets they hide.

History is always a fascination to me - especially the way our personal dramas and all-important issues are swallowed up by time.

ever seen this in the middle of Haverfordwest?

I have also included three stories to accompany my novels. This is a remarkably comforting way to avoid letting go. When you work on a novel, pouring your heart and soul into it for weeks, months, years even, there is a fabulous burst of triumph when you finally reach the last page. But that burst is very brief, and it’s followed by a dreadful gaping maw of emptiness. You can’t just cut the umbilical cord and move on. One option is to keep tweaking the original. Play this right, and you can keep it going for years. Good if you don’t want to let go, but bad if you really want to get it published. The alternative is to turn you attention to short stories that blur the awful finality of “The End.”

Having decided to fill in some gaps in my own published works, I had the arrogance to fill in some gaps in the works of others too. Well, why not?

somewhere in Gloucestershire

Moments of Consequence is out now, available on Kindle

Merry Christmas !!!

Wednesday, 7 September 2016

So clear, so obvious

One of the themes that works its way into my novels is a misinterpretation of past events, when viewed from the understanding of the present. Hindsight can cast light on a great many things, but sometimes the light it casts creates wholly deceptive shadows.

One story whose interpretation has always fascinated me begins in 1144, when William, a 12 year old tanner’s apprentice in the city of Norwich, vanished. His mutilated body was eventually found in a wood. For various reasons (Anglo-Saxon v Norman politics, ecclesiastical quests for lucrative relics, sheer malice, overheated imaginations etc) it was concluded that William had been tortured and crucified by the Jews of Norwich. The case was taken up, with relish, by a Norwich monk, Thomas of Monmouth, and expanded into a hugely gothic account, offering dozens of proofs that little William had been ritually sacrificed by the wicked Jews. The Catholic church hesitated over recognising the miracles that followed, so little “Saint” William was never actually officially canonised, but he was recognised as a saint and child martyr in Norwich.

A hundred years later, the murder of little “saint” Hugh of Lincoln was also recognised as an obvious case of Jewish ritual murder, and many of the Jews of Lincoln were promptly rounded up and hanged. The Jews of Norwich were a little luckier. They had forty-five years of freedom after William’s death before the massacres began.
Little Saint Hugh was more famous. He got a mention in Chaucer and a ballard by Steeleye Span.

It’s all a typical story of anti-Semitism in Mediaeval Europe, nasty but predictable. What really fascinates me, though, is the reinterpretation of the story in the latter part of the 20th century. According to Thomas of Monmouth’s colourful account, William’s body was found dressed in jacket and shoes. Just jacket and shoes? It doesn’t say, but historian Vivian Lipman, in 1967, concluded that the body must have been half stripped. Other historians then leapt to a similar conclusion that the murder was actually a sex crime, perpetrated by a child molester. Just as Thomas of Monmouth embellished the story out of all recognition, so modern historians turned supposition into irrefutable fact. The boy was last seen heading off with a stranger, and was later found naked from the waist down with mutilated genitals. I heard one such historian discussing the case on the radio and explaining, with a scornful laugh that ‘of course, it is obvious to us now that it was the work of a sadistic paedophile.’

Yes, it is obvious, in an age where child molesters are the big, nasty bogeymen who terrorise our imaginations, that it must have been a paedophile. But back in the 12th Century, an age of unquestioning religious stupidity and fear of outsiders, it was equally obvious that it must have been Jews performing a human sacrifice. We seek out and surprisingly discover our own invented monsters. The truth is that no one has any idea what really happened to William in 1144. Maybe he was accidentally killed while playing with friends. Maybe he was attacked in the woods by a wild boar. Maybe he was abducted by aliens who performed experiments on him! Take your pick and choose whatever comes closest to your personal nightmare.

Historians in quest of “facts” should be very cautious about jumping to conclusions. Better to leave those to novelists, who are always right, without having a single fact to support them.

Sunday, 21 August 2016

Fair Play - why book fairs?

I’ll be taking part in a small flurry of book fairs soon: The Rhondda, on September 3rd, Tenby  (which I am helping to organise) on September 24th, and Carmarthen on October 1st.

Tenby Book Fair 2015

To stand at a stall, offering my wares, might seem a very Mediaeval way of going about things in the days of internet ordering and e-books. Besides, what are bookshops for, if not to provide any book that anyone is looking for? Literary festivals like Hay, with big names addressing crowds of fans are all very well, but why bother with book fairs?

The reason is that for most of us authors, such events are the only occasions when we get to meet our readers in the flesh, to discuss our work and hear their opinion. We write for ourselves, mostly, and perhaps to please a publisher or agent, but ultimately, since we choose to be published, rather than storing our work in notebooks under our bed, we write for “the reader” out there, who will devour our polished words. It becomes a somewhat surreal situation if our readers never materialise in the flesh. We need the contact to keep it real.

A fair also allows us to meet our fellow authors, in an atmosphere where everything is all about books, and sometimes it’s very healthy to escape the private isolation of writing and remind ourselves that we are not alone. There are other people as obsessed with writing as us.

For indie authors, who self-publish, and who want to rely on more than Kindle sales on Amazon, fairs can be almost the only way to put their printed books out there, for people to see. Many bookshops simply don’t stock independent authors. An ISBN number is not enough to get you on the “List.” And for us conventionally published authors, there is no guarantee that bookshops, even their local bookshops, will pay them any attention whatsoever. If you are lucky, you might find a copy of your book, buried in a dark corner, out of sequence, while the front displays concentrate on the highly promoted big names. If you are in the hands of one of the mega-publishing houses, which sees you as a potential block-buster in WH Smiths or on airport concourses, then they might send you off on tour round the country or the world, to meet your readers. They might flaunt your book cover on billboards for you. 99% of authors don’t get that treatment, so we have to put ourselves out there.

And that’s what book fairs are for. So do come. We're a rare breed and well worth gawping at.

Friday, 5 August 2016

Catherine Marshall - deep dark mysteries

Today I am discussing her books with my guest, Catherine Marshall, my good friend and one of my favourite writers.

Catherine comes from the Midlands, and lived in London before moving to Lancashire (so far). After an early start writing romances for an imprint of Robert Hale, Catherine turned to darker topics and more complicated psychology. If you want a genre, definitely Noir! She has three novels, which may have a crime at their heart, but which concentrate on the conflicted personalities of those drawn into the maelstrom.


Masquerade is set in an Open University summer school, where students come together for a brief while, to study and to flirt with the possibility of fleetingly adopting a new personality. This they can do, because none of them know each other. Or do they? What exactly are they escaping from?

Excluded is set around Rapton, a challenging high school in Lancashire, where an idealistic headmaster is hoping to work miracles. Exclusion is a punishment he doesn’t want to use, but he is operating in an arena where far too many already feel excluded, in every way that matters. For some, it’s hard to tell where they can ever, possibly, fit in. When their stories collide, tragedy sweeps up everyone.

 Still Water is set mostly in a small resort in Cornwall, with a terrifying diversion across Europe. Summer brings holiday-makers flocking to the town, to surf and to party, including Gil, a regular, ready to renew his long-time acquaintance with one local woman, but also to discover a new passion with another. The trouble is, both are nursing past griefs, and before the summer is over, something is going to break.

Here is my interview with Catherine.

Q. Your characters are all complex and very real. Some of them are very troubled, or disturbed, or downright unpleasant, but you write about all of them with a degree of sympathy. Do you ever ache to make things turn out better for them?

Yes, sometimes, especially if I kill them off! But I’m always thinking about what would make the better story. If the characters aren’t sympathetic, the reader won’t care about them or about what happens to them, and you need some level of emotional investment to continue reading. I need not to like them, necessarily, but to understand them, and with that comes sympathy. I try to factor in too what might realistically happen, but that comes second to telling a good story and ensuring there are twists and turns to the plot.

Q. Masquerade is about people whisked away from their normal lives for a brief moment and they are all, in some way, wearing masks. Does that appeal to you – being someone new for a short while?

Well, that was where the idea for Masquerade began. When I was travelling to that summer school I was tempted to reinvent myself for a week – and by the end of the first day I’d realised how much energy that would require. Also, I’d find it hard to be so acutely focussed on myself for any length of time – I’m always more interested in other people, who they are and what makes them tick. But the idea was born, and all four main characters have good reasons for dissembling to a greater or lesser degree. I’m fascinated by the concept of identity, and a Psychology summer school is a very good place to explore that concept.

Q.  Masquerade is set in… well, it must surely be Bath? A very atmospheric setting. Why did you choose it?

Prosaically, because that’s where my own summer school took place. But Bath has a very specific atmosphere – a mystery and a magic due to its size and its history – which many cities don’t have, and which made it just right for the location of the story. It’s small enough for you to bump into people you know but big enough to get lost in if you’re a stranger, which was exactly what I needed for the plot. The story is partly set in Brighton too, and I think it has a comparable ambience.

Q.  Excluded paints a pretty hair-raising picture of a troubled school in Lancashire. Did you base it on fact and your own experiences?

Yes, completely. The characters are composites (I hasten to add) but the setting, and the way the school functions – or rather, doesn’t – was the very worrying truth of the school in which I worked at that time. There were many boys like Callum and Todd, struggling with similar issues. So I didn’t have to do any research, just lay a fictional story over a factual background.

Q. The book follows the fatally interlocking story of several characters who feel unjustly excluded. For me, the central one is Dean, the newly released prisoner with a miserable past. Is that how you see him, or would you choose another character?

When I began writing Excluded, it was without a central character in mind, though Todd and Stephen and Finn were all contenders. It was only when I was about two thirds of the way through that I realised it was Dean’s story, and how could I possibly have thought otherwise? The reader learns more about Dean than the others, as his story covers a longer time period, and he represents the idea of exclusion so precisely. And of course, the more I wrote from his point of view, the more I grew to like and understand him, which I didn’t expect to do at the beginning.

Q. I am impressed by the way the story ends with questions not quite answered, leaving the reader to
hope, without any guarantees. Were you tempted to spell out the fate of all the characters and tie up all the loose ends neatly?

No. Excluded is the most realistic of my novels, and therefore has the most realistic ending, I think. We reach a natural conclusion to that particular stage in the characters’ stories, but to tie up loose ends and enforce a traditionally happy ending would detract from everything that had gone before.

Q. Still Water has one of the most chilling openings I have ever read, and the consequent flight scenes are terrifying and compelling. Do you have nightmares at night, or a very dark imagination?

I rarely suffer from nightmares, so must have a very dark imagination! The idea for Still Water came from how strongly we can feel if we think we’ve been betrayed on a very ordinary level, in the most ordinary of situations, and I wanted to look at what betrayal – or perceived betrayal - might do to someone in more extreme circumstances. So yes, I guess that’s dark – but surely better drama.

Q. The glorious setting for much of the story is Cornwall. How much is fictional? It is clearly an area you love.

Yes indeed. St Ives was my inspiration for the setting of Still Water, but I didn’t name it because I wanted there to be locations for the purposes of the story which don’t actually exist. The square where Cecily’s cafĂ© is based, for example, isn’t real, and nor is Patrick’s bar. But Alex’s gallery was a beach shop during my 1970s family holidays and then I discovered last year that it is now, in fact, a gallery.

Q. You are very good at writing sexy, competent but interestingly flawed men. Why choose crime-based human dramas rather than romances?

There’s my dark imagination in play! I suppose partly because I prefer mysteries and thrillers to romances, and partly because it gives them more to do and more meat as a character. I’m much more interested in the whole of someone’s psychological make-up, in what motivates and inspires and limits them, and in keeping them more grittily real than romantic leads tend to be.

I can vouch for the fact that Catherine’s books are great, if disturbing, reads and I highly recommend all of them.

Find them here.



Still Water

And find out more about Catherine:


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