I don’t know if you’ve ever listened to the programme, but a fairly regular Thursday morning date for me is BBC Radio Four’s In Our Time with Melvin Bragg. If you can’t be near a radio at nine in the morning, it’s on BBC iplayer and usually worth catching. I’m not sure why it’s called In Our Time, by the way, as that sounds like current affairs. It isn’t. The topics discussed range all over the place, from astronomy to Robin Hood. The format is to gather together three academics, specialists in their field, and launch them at a subject.
This week’s topic was a discussion by experts on Ancient Rome, Mary Beard, Tim Cornell and Peter Wiseman, about Rome’s foundation myth of Romulus and Remus. Now, at the risk of impinging on my pal, Jane Finnis’s territory, I found it fascinating.
You see, as foundation myths go, it’s very odd. Very briefly, the twins, Romulus and Remus are the children of Rhea Silva, daughter of King Numitor. Wicked Uncle Amulius, Numitor’s brother, seized power, killed Numitor and all his male heirs and forced Rhea Silva to become a vestal virgin. So far, so fairy tale, especially when the god Mars pops in for a fling with Rhea Silva. The resulting twin boys (difficult to explain for a vestal virgin!) are thrown into the river Tiber to die. You can imagine Wicked Uncle Amulius dusting his hands together and saying ‘ut 'quod tunc’ or ‘that’s that, then’, laughing evilly and twirling his moustache. (Moustaches are obligatory for Wicked Uncles.)
However.... a she-wolf suckles them, a woodpecker feeds them and a shepherd and Mrs shepherd find the boys and bring them up as simple shepherds. Only R+R have charisma, gather followers – lots of them – and are seriously annoyed when they find out about Amulius’s misdeeds. One ex-Wicked Uncle later, and they’re ready to found a city. Only, like an ancient version of Escape To The Country, they can’t agree where to put it. Romulus fancies the Palatine Hill, Remus prefers the view from the Aventine. Things are said, tempers flare and Romulus kills Remus, gets his way and founds Rome.
Okay... the odd thing about this myth, as unpicked by Mary Beard et al, is that although the Romans told and re-told the story, they were seriously embarrassed by it. Fratricide was frowned on and they weren’t very happy about the wolf part either. Because the Roman slang for a lady of uncertain virtue was lupa or she-wolf, many preferred to believe R+R had been nurtured by a kind hearted lady generous with her favours. And why twins? Twins crop up in myths to explain duplication but R+R don’t duplicate or explain anything; one simply murders the other. If you’re inventing a hero, he’s a lot more heroic if he doesn’t murder his brother. There wasn’t really an explanation, just an examination of the oddities of the story and a discussion of how myths and folk-tales come to be created in the first place.
One theory that wasn’t aired was this; what if the heart of the tale is true? What if two abandoned boys were brought up by wolves? (I find the woodpecker a bit hard to swallow!) Put “feral children” into Google and you’ll find examples – some very recent – of more or less just that. The poor kids hardly ever adjust to human society but that could be where the Mr and Mrs shepherd come in.
Interesting, eh?
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Answers...
I’ve half-read a book this week. Well, blow me, I can hear you muttering. That’s exciting news. I’ve read a book too... Yes, well, wait a minute and I’ll explain.
You see, the book wasn’t actually very good. Oh, it sounded all right; a science-fantasy complete with magic set nowadays. Fine. The author can certainly write, too, in the sense of sticking one word with another word and making it sound okay. So why did it fall flat? The answer was quite interesting, for anyone who wants to know about creative writing.
The trouble was, there was nothing to pull you into the world. The hero arrives in a world where magic rules and that’s about it, really. He’s got no problems to solve or questions to answer and neither have we. (At about the halfway point, a villian seems to have suddenly cropped up, so I’m going to persevere for a bit longer, as it might get interesting, but halfway through is too late.)
Now, at this point you might think that I’m unduly attached to problems. (Fictional ones, that is - if anyone wants real life problems, be my guest!) After all, I write mysteries and a mystery that isn’t mysterious isn’t much cop, so you sort of expect random corpses and dodgy goings-on. However, all books need to pose some sort of question and have some sort of problem.
In Anna Karenina,(not, you notice, a detective story)we know by the third line that Prince Stepan’s affair with the French governess has been rumbled by his wife. He’s sleeping in the spare room and life isn’t particularly tickety-boo. How, we ask, is he going to get out of that one?
No prizes for guessing where this one comes from!
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.”
So which daughter and which man? We want to know...
In The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, Lucy has two problems at the start of the book. Having got into the quietly sinister Narnia, how’s she going to get out again? Especially when she finds the apparently friendly Mr Tumnus is actually working for the White Witch. Then, having got safely home, she has to convince her brothers and sister that Narnia really exists. I doubt if there’s a person on Earth who hasn’t suffered the frustration of trying to convince others of the truth. There’s some very fervent celebrations in the wizarding world at the start of Harry Potter. Why’s everyone so excited? And how – this question crops up very early – did baby Harry survive the hitherto infallible killing curse? And, not to blow my own trumpet unduly, what, Jack wants to know, really did happen to Mark Helston in Trouble Brewing?
So what are the questions and what are the problems? When an author gets it right, we want to know the answers and that means we want to read the book. Result.
You see, the book wasn’t actually very good. Oh, it sounded all right; a science-fantasy complete with magic set nowadays. Fine. The author can certainly write, too, in the sense of sticking one word with another word and making it sound okay. So why did it fall flat? The answer was quite interesting, for anyone who wants to know about creative writing.
The trouble was, there was nothing to pull you into the world. The hero arrives in a world where magic rules and that’s about it, really. He’s got no problems to solve or questions to answer and neither have we. (At about the halfway point, a villian seems to have suddenly cropped up, so I’m going to persevere for a bit longer, as it might get interesting, but halfway through is too late.)
Now, at this point you might think that I’m unduly attached to problems. (Fictional ones, that is - if anyone wants real life problems, be my guest!) After all, I write mysteries and a mystery that isn’t mysterious isn’t much cop, so you sort of expect random corpses and dodgy goings-on. However, all books need to pose some sort of question and have some sort of problem.
In Anna Karenina,(not, you notice, a detective story)we know by the third line that Prince Stepan’s affair with the French governess has been rumbled by his wife. He’s sleeping in the spare room and life isn’t particularly tickety-boo. How, we ask, is he going to get out of that one?
No prizes for guessing where this one comes from!
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.”
So which daughter and which man? We want to know...
In The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, Lucy has two problems at the start of the book. Having got into the quietly sinister Narnia, how’s she going to get out again? Especially when she finds the apparently friendly Mr Tumnus is actually working for the White Witch. Then, having got safely home, she has to convince her brothers and sister that Narnia really exists. I doubt if there’s a person on Earth who hasn’t suffered the frustration of trying to convince others of the truth. There’s some very fervent celebrations in the wizarding world at the start of Harry Potter. Why’s everyone so excited? And how – this question crops up very early – did baby Harry survive the hitherto infallible killing curse? And, not to blow my own trumpet unduly, what, Jack wants to know, really did happen to Mark Helston in Trouble Brewing?
So what are the questions and what are the problems? When an author gets it right, we want to know the answers and that means we want to read the book. Result.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
The Next Big Thing
Happy New Year everyone! I’ve been asked to take part in the (rather optimistically) entitled The Next Big Thing, a series of questions designed to uncover the lurking literary genius within. It’s a bit like Mastermind for writers. The last Next Big Thing was by my old pal and fellow Mystery Maker, Rebecca Jenkins, author of the Raif Jarrett eighteenth century crime series The Duke’s Agent etc – really good!) who’s tossed the baton to me.
So.... Lights down, focus on the big black chair, cue music (der, du, du DU derrr, der der, DER) and imagine me poised and ready to answer questions.
Name: Dolores Gordon-Smith
Occupation Pilot, deep sea diver, Formula `1 racedriver, archaeologist, palaeontologist, astronaut...
Voice off: (wearily) Real occupation, please.
Me: Oh, really? But the made up ones are ever so interesting. Oh, all right then. Author.
Voice off: And can we stick to the script, please? There’s Amy Myers waiting to do the Next Big Thing, you know and you’re holding her up.
Me: Okey-doke.
What is the working title of your book?
It’s called Blood From A Stone.
With the Roman protection of Britain crumbling, a terrified Roman citizen buried his wealth in a sacred cave under the altar of the god, Euthius, deep within what was the ancient forest of Andred in Sussex.
In 1780, Sir Jasper Leigh of Breagan Grange, as the area is now known, discovered the treasure. The Breagan Bounty, as the treasure was called. consisted of gold jewellery, coins and a golden box containing a valuable collection of uncut sapphires. The coins and jewellery are now in the British Museum, but Sir Jasper had the sapphires made into a necklace and ear-rings which were passed down to the eldest girl in the Leigh family. How those sapphires turn up at the feet of a murdered man in a third-class railway compartment in 1926 is the basis of the story.
Now, with all that (and much, much more) going on, I couldn’t think of a title for love or money. It was my brilliant daughter, Helen, who came up with Blood From A Stone and I think it’s perfect.
Where did the idea for the book come from?
I was on holiday in Pembrokeshire when we visited Pembroke Castle. Underneath the castle is the Wogan Cave – very dark, very mysterious, with a spiral staircase leading down from (or up to) the castle and just bulging with potential. So I nicked the cave, changed its location, erected an entirely different building on top of it, mixed in some murder and mayhem and sapphires. Oh, and a visit to a haunted house in York fed into the mix as well!
What genre does your book fall into?
Historical mystery. It’s set in the 1920’s which always seem just the right time for detective fiction to me. It’s modern – you call telephone someone and get in a car – but there’s rules in society and codes to follow which, once broken, allow plenty of scope for concealment and strife. Crime is detected by logic but there’s no DNA testing to pinpoint a murderer. Besides that, I’m a massive fan of Agatha Christie and PG Wodehouse and love being able to write in their world.
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie version?
A movie? Wow. Quite frankly, if anyone wanted to make a film, they could cast Donald Duck and I’d be as happy as a sandboy.
What is a one-sentence synopsis of your book?
I hate synopses! One of the many lovely things about Severn House, my publisher, is that they don’t require a synopsis. However, here goes... I can’t do it in one sentence though. Here’s seven:
The small and inquisitive village of Topfordham is agog when the elderly Mrs Paxton goes to Paris with her artist nephew, Terence Napier. When, on her return home, she is poisoned and Napier disappears, Topfordham is horrified. It seems obvious Napier murdered Mrs Paxton in a bid to steal her sapphires. Francis Leigh, Napier's cousin, is convinced Napier is innocent and asks Jack Haldean to help. Oddly enough, Jack is already interested in Mrs Paxton’s sapphires - they've turned up on the floor of a third class railway compartment, scattered at a dead man’s feet. So who's the dead man in the train? And is the bluff, genial Francis Leigh quite as blameless as he appears?
Will the book be self-published or represented by an agency?
None of the above. I haven’t got an agent but am published by the lovely Severn House, one of the largest independents, who publish Jack’s cases in hardback, paperback and on Kindle.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Think of the best Agatha Christie or Dorothy L Sayers you’ve ever read. Yes, that’s the one!
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
I suppose the real inspiration was a contract offering hard cash for an “Untitled Jack Haldean” as it was described but, in addition, it was an urge to have buried treasure, ancient Roman stuff, railways, mysterious deaths, English villages and jewels all within a neat and tidy plot. Oh yes, and the Wogan cave. You can think of it as contained chaos.
What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?
It’s really good and it’s out in March. And if you like it and tell me so face to face, I’ll buy you a drink. Now that is a good deal!
And now for the next author in this series...
It’s over to Amy Myers, the prolific author of the Jack Colby series (amongst others) at http://www.amymyers.net/
So.... Lights down, focus on the big black chair, cue music (der, du, du DU derrr, der der, DER) and imagine me poised and ready to answer questions.
Name: Dolores Gordon-Smith
Occupation Pilot, deep sea diver, Formula `1 racedriver, archaeologist, palaeontologist, astronaut...
Voice off: (wearily) Real occupation, please.
Me: Oh, really? But the made up ones are ever so interesting. Oh, all right then. Author.
Voice off: And can we stick to the script, please? There’s Amy Myers waiting to do the Next Big Thing, you know and you’re holding her up.
Me: Okey-doke.
What is the working title of your book?
It’s called Blood From A Stone.
With the Roman protection of Britain crumbling, a terrified Roman citizen buried his wealth in a sacred cave under the altar of the god, Euthius, deep within what was the ancient forest of Andred in Sussex.
In 1780, Sir Jasper Leigh of Breagan Grange, as the area is now known, discovered the treasure. The Breagan Bounty, as the treasure was called. consisted of gold jewellery, coins and a golden box containing a valuable collection of uncut sapphires. The coins and jewellery are now in the British Museum, but Sir Jasper had the sapphires made into a necklace and ear-rings which were passed down to the eldest girl in the Leigh family. How those sapphires turn up at the feet of a murdered man in a third-class railway compartment in 1926 is the basis of the story.
Now, with all that (and much, much more) going on, I couldn’t think of a title for love or money. It was my brilliant daughter, Helen, who came up with Blood From A Stone and I think it’s perfect.
Where did the idea for the book come from?
I was on holiday in Pembrokeshire when we visited Pembroke Castle. Underneath the castle is the Wogan Cave – very dark, very mysterious, with a spiral staircase leading down from (or up to) the castle and just bulging with potential. So I nicked the cave, changed its location, erected an entirely different building on top of it, mixed in some murder and mayhem and sapphires. Oh, and a visit to a haunted house in York fed into the mix as well!
What genre does your book fall into?
Historical mystery. It’s set in the 1920’s which always seem just the right time for detective fiction to me. It’s modern – you call telephone someone and get in a car – but there’s rules in society and codes to follow which, once broken, allow plenty of scope for concealment and strife. Crime is detected by logic but there’s no DNA testing to pinpoint a murderer. Besides that, I’m a massive fan of Agatha Christie and PG Wodehouse and love being able to write in their world.
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie version?
A movie? Wow. Quite frankly, if anyone wanted to make a film, they could cast Donald Duck and I’d be as happy as a sandboy.
What is a one-sentence synopsis of your book?
I hate synopses! One of the many lovely things about Severn House, my publisher, is that they don’t require a synopsis. However, here goes... I can’t do it in one sentence though. Here’s seven:
The small and inquisitive village of Topfordham is agog when the elderly Mrs Paxton goes to Paris with her artist nephew, Terence Napier. When, on her return home, she is poisoned and Napier disappears, Topfordham is horrified. It seems obvious Napier murdered Mrs Paxton in a bid to steal her sapphires. Francis Leigh, Napier's cousin, is convinced Napier is innocent and asks Jack Haldean to help. Oddly enough, Jack is already interested in Mrs Paxton’s sapphires - they've turned up on the floor of a third class railway compartment, scattered at a dead man’s feet. So who's the dead man in the train? And is the bluff, genial Francis Leigh quite as blameless as he appears?
Will the book be self-published or represented by an agency?
None of the above. I haven’t got an agent but am published by the lovely Severn House, one of the largest independents, who publish Jack’s cases in hardback, paperback and on Kindle.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Think of the best Agatha Christie or Dorothy L Sayers you’ve ever read. Yes, that’s the one!
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
I suppose the real inspiration was a contract offering hard cash for an “Untitled Jack Haldean” as it was described but, in addition, it was an urge to have buried treasure, ancient Roman stuff, railways, mysterious deaths, English villages and jewels all within a neat and tidy plot. Oh yes, and the Wogan cave. You can think of it as contained chaos.
What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?
It’s really good and it’s out in March. And if you like it and tell me so face to face, I’ll buy you a drink. Now that is a good deal!
And now for the next author in this series...
It’s over to Amy Myers, the prolific author of the Jack Colby series (amongst others) at http://www.amymyers.net/
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Holmes and Watson at Christmas
I had called to see my old pal, Mr Sherlock Holmes and to update my website, http://mymatessmarterthanme.com when I found him obviously contemplating a spot of decorating.
“Good Heavens, Holmes!” I cried as I saw the book in his hand. “Are you going for Holmes improvements?” I chortled merrily at my witticism, but Holmes remained unmoved, without a flicker of hilarity crossing his well-chiselled features.
I really do think Holmes should see an audiologist. Despite my frequent forays into humour, Holmes rarely smiles. It was when I saw him with custard in one ear and a sponge finger in the other I thought he was a trifle deaf.
“Good Heavens, Holmes!” I cried. “We’ll have to get brushes and paints and ladders and so on before we embark upon such a course,” I continued. “We need an honest artisan, a tradesfellow, a cheery Cockney working-class comic relief, to say, “Cor blimey, guv’nor,” and other typical phrases. Tell me, Holmes, is there a B and Q in London?”
“By no means, Watson, my ill-lettered friend,” he replied. “There’s a L and an O and a N and a...”
The trouble is with Holmes is that he makes jokes as lame as Igor and expects me to laugh.
“I don’t think much of your choice of colours,” I said, cutting him off in his prime. “Good Heavens, Holmes!” I cried. “Fifty shades of grey? How depressing!”
“What would you prefer, Watson?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about doing the Study in Scarlet?”
At this point we were interrupted by our honest and worthy landlady, Mrs Hudson.
She was in a great to-do, wailing and wringing her hands in her apron. No matter how many times I’ve told her to use the mangle for hand-wringing, she refuses to follow my advice.
“Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes!” she reiterated.
If I’ve told that woman once, I’ve told her a dozen times, I can give her a good tonic for that, but she insists on reiterating all over the hearth rug.
“It’s the peas, sir,” she said reiterating madly. “I had some nice green peas in the colander, all ready to wash for dinner, and they all jumped out of the dish and are now all over the kitchen yard, covered in mud. What shall I do, sir?”
“I’m afraid, my good woman, there is nothing to be done,” said Holmes, drawing his brows together. Holmes frequently enlivens these little chats of ours with artwork. “It’s the time of year, I’m afraid.”
Mrs Hudson and I looked at each other with Wild Surmise. (Wild Surmise and here sister, Tame, are the new parlour maids.) “The season, sir?” she wavered? “I don’t understand.”
“Christmas, Mrs Hudson,” he replied brusquely, putting down his pencils and picking up a ball of wool. I knew what that meant. He was going to knit his brows together now. “Where would you expect to find peas at Christmas, eh?”
“In Tesco’s?” I suggested.
“Nonsense, man! The answer is on the ground, yes? Don’t you see? Christmas means Peas on Earth.”
“Good Heavens, Holmes!” I cried as I saw the book in his hand. “Are you going for Holmes improvements?” I chortled merrily at my witticism, but Holmes remained unmoved, without a flicker of hilarity crossing his well-chiselled features.
I really do think Holmes should see an audiologist. Despite my frequent forays into humour, Holmes rarely smiles. It was when I saw him with custard in one ear and a sponge finger in the other I thought he was a trifle deaf.
“Good Heavens, Holmes!” I cried. “We’ll have to get brushes and paints and ladders and so on before we embark upon such a course,” I continued. “We need an honest artisan, a tradesfellow, a cheery Cockney working-class comic relief, to say, “Cor blimey, guv’nor,” and other typical phrases. Tell me, Holmes, is there a B and Q in London?”
“By no means, Watson, my ill-lettered friend,” he replied. “There’s a L and an O and a N and a...”
The trouble is with Holmes is that he makes jokes as lame as Igor and expects me to laugh.
“I don’t think much of your choice of colours,” I said, cutting him off in his prime. “Good Heavens, Holmes!” I cried. “Fifty shades of grey? How depressing!”
“What would you prefer, Watson?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about doing the Study in Scarlet?”
At this point we were interrupted by our honest and worthy landlady, Mrs Hudson.
She was in a great to-do, wailing and wringing her hands in her apron. No matter how many times I’ve told her to use the mangle for hand-wringing, she refuses to follow my advice.
“Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes!” she reiterated.
If I’ve told that woman once, I’ve told her a dozen times, I can give her a good tonic for that, but she insists on reiterating all over the hearth rug.
“It’s the peas, sir,” she said reiterating madly. “I had some nice green peas in the colander, all ready to wash for dinner, and they all jumped out of the dish and are now all over the kitchen yard, covered in mud. What shall I do, sir?”
“I’m afraid, my good woman, there is nothing to be done,” said Holmes, drawing his brows together. Holmes frequently enlivens these little chats of ours with artwork. “It’s the time of year, I’m afraid.”
Mrs Hudson and I looked at each other with Wild Surmise. (Wild Surmise and here sister, Tame, are the new parlour maids.) “The season, sir?” she wavered? “I don’t understand.”
“Christmas, Mrs Hudson,” he replied brusquely, putting down his pencils and picking up a ball of wool. I knew what that meant. He was going to knit his brows together now. “Where would you expect to find peas at Christmas, eh?”
“In Tesco’s?” I suggested.
“Nonsense, man! The answer is on the ground, yes? Don’t you see? Christmas means Peas on Earth.”
Friday, December 7, 2012
Booklist and the Lottery
Turn the telly on Saturday night for the lottery programme, everyone – my incredibly sporty daughter Jessica and me are on it, playing netball with Sir Chris Hoy. Gosh.
On another note, Booklist has given the thumbs–up to Frankie’s Letter. This is what they said:
Frankie's Letter, Gordon-Smith, Dolores (Author), Jan 2013. 224 p. Severn, hardcover, $28.95. (9780727882172).
It’s the height of WWI, and Dr. Anthony Brooke has abandoned his medical career to become a spy for England. His latest mission in Germany is compromised when wounded fellow spy Terence Cavanaugh staggers into Anthony’s hotel room and dies at Anthony’s feet. His last mumbled words are, “English gentleman spy,” “star anger,” and “Frankie’s letter.” Completely mystified but with the German army hot on his trail, Anthony flees to England, where he is charged with figuring out what is behind Cavanaugh’s final, puzzling message. The trail leads to the country estate of publishing magnate Patrick Sherston, where Anthony finds himself embroiled in a terrifying game of subterfuge. Packed with adventure, action, and unforeseen twists, Gordon-Smith’s latest will appeal to Ken Follett fans.
Ken Follett, eh? That’s not bad.
Aa a matter of fact, though, the main message poor old Terence Cavanaugh mumbles is “Frankie’s letter. Read Frankie’s letter...” And, with Christmas round the corner, if you’re looking for a pressie, you could take it as a hint...!
On another note, Booklist has given the thumbs–up to Frankie’s Letter. This is what they said:
Frankie's Letter, Gordon-Smith, Dolores (Author), Jan 2013. 224 p. Severn, hardcover, $28.95. (9780727882172).
It’s the height of WWI, and Dr. Anthony Brooke has abandoned his medical career to become a spy for England. His latest mission in Germany is compromised when wounded fellow spy Terence Cavanaugh staggers into Anthony’s hotel room and dies at Anthony’s feet. His last mumbled words are, “English gentleman spy,” “star anger,” and “Frankie’s letter.” Completely mystified but with the German army hot on his trail, Anthony flees to England, where he is charged with figuring out what is behind Cavanaugh’s final, puzzling message. The trail leads to the country estate of publishing magnate Patrick Sherston, where Anthony finds himself embroiled in a terrifying game of subterfuge. Packed with adventure, action, and unforeseen twists, Gordon-Smith’s latest will appeal to Ken Follett fans.
Ken Follett, eh? That’s not bad.
Aa a matter of fact, though, the main message poor old Terence Cavanaugh mumbles is “Frankie’s letter. Read Frankie’s letter...” And, with Christmas round the corner, if you’re looking for a pressie, you could take it as a hint...!
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Mystery Makers
Do you belong to a Writers’ Group or a bookclub in the north of England? If so, I’d like to direct you to
http://www.mysterymakers.co.uk/
As you can see, Jane Finnis, Rebecca Jenkins and me have set up a sort of Authors’ R Us. We all write historical mysteries and all love talking about history, research and writing. If you’d like us to come and talk to your group, get in touch.
Mystery Makers was officially launched in York on the 22nd. Waterstones had very generously opened the shop after hours for Jane to celebrate the re-release of her first book, Shadows in the Night, (previously entitled Get Out or Die!) with a new cover from Head of Zeus, the UK partners of the American Poisoned Pen. Not only was Jane there on good form, she’d also brought with her two Roman soldiers. Like, doesn’t everyone travel with a couple of Roman soldiers? This wasn’t an audience that was going to heckle!
So, if you fancy having the three of us pop up at a group near you, I can’t promise Roman soldiers, but I can promise a really interesting session!
http://www.mysterymakers.co.uk/
As you can see, Jane Finnis, Rebecca Jenkins and me have set up a sort of Authors’ R Us. We all write historical mysteries and all love talking about history, research and writing. If you’d like us to come and talk to your group, get in touch.
Mystery Makers was officially launched in York on the 22nd. Waterstones had very generously opened the shop after hours for Jane to celebrate the re-release of her first book, Shadows in the Night, (previously entitled Get Out or Die!) with a new cover from Head of Zeus, the UK partners of the American Poisoned Pen. Not only was Jane there on good form, she’d also brought with her two Roman soldiers. Like, doesn’t everyone travel with a couple of Roman soldiers? This wasn’t an audience that was going to heckle!
So, if you fancy having the three of us pop up at a group near you, I can’t promise Roman soldiers, but I can promise a really interesting session!
Monday, November 19, 2012
Chris Hoy, netball... and me
This is about the most bizarre opening sentence I’ll ever type.
Last Wednesday I played netball with Sir Chris Hoy. Yes, that Chris Hoy, the track cyclist, the eleven-time world champion, six-time Olympic champion and a winner of a total of seven Olympic Games medals, six gold and one silver. That’s three gold medals in Bejing and two gold medals in London 2012.
Wow.
Now I am not a sporting legend. I know, I know, but you can’t do everything. So what on earth was I doing playing netball with Chris Hoy? And what, for the uninitiated, is netball anyway?
Netball, for those who don’t know, is rather like basketball, but perhaps even more fun. It’s mainly, but not exclusively, played by girls and, although it’s hugely popular in schools, suffers a bit from not being an Olympic sport. And, about four years ago, Back To Netball was set up to offer netball sessions to everyone, sporty and non-sporty alike.
Jessica, my incredibly sporty daughter, bullied me into going on the grounds that a) It was in the sports centre up the road b) I didn’t have to sign up to X number of sessions and b)I’d enjoy it when I got there. And, of course, she was right. If you put Back To Netball into Google you’ll probably find a session near you.
Anyway, the Back To Netball bods applied for Lottery funding. Sheonah, the coach, asked us all a favour last Monday night. Could we possibly come along on Wednesday morning as the BBC were filming the session and she wanted enough bodies to make it look good. OK. Jessica took the day off work and I forsook Literature for a while.
And we went and we played and the producer asked us to smile and talk and keep on talking – and then Sir Chris Hoy walked into the room with two gold medals from London 2012 round his neck. Shine a light. He’s gorjus!!! We’d won the lottery funding and it’ll be broadcast on the BBC lottery programme on the 8th of December. He stayed for two hours (gasp) and played netball (double gasp). Jessica got to partner him and I was his opposite number. Sir Chris posted this picture on his Twitter feed, asking for captions. As you see, he was getting to grips with the game and I.... Well, I was just getting to grips!
Last Wednesday I played netball with Sir Chris Hoy. Yes, that Chris Hoy, the track cyclist, the eleven-time world champion, six-time Olympic champion and a winner of a total of seven Olympic Games medals, six gold and one silver. That’s three gold medals in Bejing and two gold medals in London 2012.
Wow.
Now I am not a sporting legend. I know, I know, but you can’t do everything. So what on earth was I doing playing netball with Chris Hoy? And what, for the uninitiated, is netball anyway?
Netball, for those who don’t know, is rather like basketball, but perhaps even more fun. It’s mainly, but not exclusively, played by girls and, although it’s hugely popular in schools, suffers a bit from not being an Olympic sport. And, about four years ago, Back To Netball was set up to offer netball sessions to everyone, sporty and non-sporty alike.
Jessica, my incredibly sporty daughter, bullied me into going on the grounds that a) It was in the sports centre up the road b) I didn’t have to sign up to X number of sessions and b)I’d enjoy it when I got there. And, of course, she was right. If you put Back To Netball into Google you’ll probably find a session near you.
Anyway, the Back To Netball bods applied for Lottery funding. Sheonah, the coach, asked us all a favour last Monday night. Could we possibly come along on Wednesday morning as the BBC were filming the session and she wanted enough bodies to make it look good. OK. Jessica took the day off work and I forsook Literature for a while.
And we went and we played and the producer asked us to smile and talk and keep on talking – and then Sir Chris Hoy walked into the room with two gold medals from London 2012 round his neck. Shine a light. He’s gorjus!!! We’d won the lottery funding and it’ll be broadcast on the BBC lottery programme on the 8th of December. He stayed for two hours (gasp) and played netball (double gasp). Jessica got to partner him and I was his opposite number. Sir Chris posted this picture on his Twitter feed, asking for captions. As you see, he was getting to grips with the game and I.... Well, I was just getting to grips!
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