Author: Sharon

Writer of Dark and Light Fiction. Fact, fiction, poetry, short stories, articles and novels. Cross-genre, slipstream, non-traditional romance, gothic, horror, fantasy and more... Visit this diverse writer's site.

Time for a Change

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I made the tough decision last week to remove some of my titles from circulation. Not an easy or overnight decision by any means — I spent many months reaching that conclusion. With the closure of one publisher, now was as good a time as any to reconsider some of my older works. Those I’ve withdrawn no longer represent me. My style has changed as I have improved. I may re-release some after an edit but I’m happy to let others rest for now, if not indefinitely. A few books I never intended to write, owing to the muse and opportunity. I regret none of them — they were all a learning experience — but my interests have grown, as have the possibilities.

To some writers, particularly those still seeking publication, the decision to withdraw books from the market may sound surprising. No one warns you of the heartache when a good publisher closes, or having to make the sometimes heartrending choices, and this was definitely one of those. I was pleased and proud to hear their door remains open to me. This re-enforces the fact they were a wonderful group to work with and tells me they’ve appreciated the stories I produced for them. Didn’t make parting ways any easier.

The simple truth is some older works can do more harm than good, particularly when the writing has improved so much as to be almost unrecognisable. I don’t mean the older work is necessarily poor, but the difference can be so great it may influence someone’s decision to hire the writer, and there can be many factors too many to bother mentioning here. If a work weighs heavily on the writer, if there’s a smidgen of doubt, the best thing can be to put the work to bed. In the matter of love, it’s sometimes said the heart wants what the heart wants. It’s a peculiar lesson for the writer to realise the same can be said of one’s writing.

Dark Poetry

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Dark fiction doesn’t have to only mean stories. I’ve dabbled with poetry occasionally, but not written much for several years. Still, whenever I’ve crossed my dark fiction with what poetry skills I have, there’s no denying one improves the other.

Of course, this type of playing with words is nothing new. We can thank Poe for creating one of the most famous pieces of dark poetry.

Could there be a better voice to read this to you than Christopher Lee?

Though if you’d prefer some graphics:

To Read or Not to Read

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When I mention my To-Be-Read-Mountain, few are surprised. Not only do I buy more books per year than I can usually read, I inherited a good 500 books from my father a few years ago. That’s 500 I kept, discounting those I gave away to friends and charity. He had many genres, including fantasies I’ve longed to read, and several series of which I’d never heard. A few trilogies had the first book only, or book one and two with the third missing, so I went searching to complete those that interested me. These amounted to many novels, adding to an existing extensive collection. My bookshelves ‘double up’.

I’m always amazed by people’s reactions, ‘Wow, books’. Makes me think of the little green men from Toy Story all going ‘Oooooooohhhhhhh.’ With me I can spend an hour in someone’s home wondering ‘what’s wrong with this picture?’ before I realise, there are no books. A house without books, to me, isn’t a home.

Still, I’m left asking can we have too much of a good thing? When having to move, yes, and I’ve carted this lot around twice in recent years. I’ve come to the time where I must be more selective of the books I keep, even purchase. Some writers are exempt from this rule — quite a list of them — will stay with me always. I should surprise no one when I say one of those authors is Terry Pratchett.

I’ve been listing him in my top five for more years than I can recall but it wasn’t until he died it hit me what a long love-affair I’ve had with Rincewind, Death, The Luggage, The Librarian, Sam Vimes, and… well, that names a mere few, though I shouldn’t forget Rob Anybody, my favourite Nac Mac Feegle. Say hello, Rob. Don’t worry; he always looks this grumpy.

This may sound like gobbledegook to many, but not to anyone who grasped the wonder of Terry’s satire. A friend once told me she’d read the first book (in her words: cute, about wizards) without getting that Terry Pratchett wrote satire, that the Discworld was our world, that the University was our government, the clacks system our postal service and so on. I’m not as surprised as I might be. Few know Gulliver’s Travels was also an exercise in parody.

When Terry died, I was already experiencing a rough day during lasting stress. The universe felled another hammer blow. Is it possible to experience genuine grief when someone you’ve never met dies? Absolutely. I won’t be the only one to say so. When you’ve admired someone, their work, kept track for many years, the loss is real. If nothing else, ‘no more Discworld’ is a hard kick.

I’ll soon be picking up another of his books with the bittersweet knowledge I have about four titles to go to and the fantasy books he wrote with Stephen Baxter. Yes, I’ve still a few of Terry’s books to read… and in there is a puzzle. Why haven’t I read them all?

Because I’ve so many writers I love and I like to spend time with Terry’s books.

I wanted the stress to pass and to be settled before I dipped into the last of his titles. I wanted to feel relaxed while reading them.

I wanted to treasure them and also delay because he’s gone from this world and once I read the last few titles, there will be no more.

This sounds ridiculous, but I know many who were reading the last book or two who said the same: once they finished those, there were no more to look forward to. It’s like closing a book, having found it so good, the desire is there to begin again. Given enough time, I’ll do that too. Meanwhile, to Terry, a man’s whose imagination the world was lucky to have, a heartfelt thank you!

Guest Post: Clarissa Johal ‘Whispers in the Woods’

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I don’t usually blog twice in one day but for Clarissa Johal I’ll make an exception. Please welcome her to my blog. I’m currently reading her book, Between.
Book Details:
Title: Whispers in the Wood
Genre: Paranormal Dark Fantasy
Author: Clarissa Johal
Editor: Frank Moore
Publisher: Faeriemoon Press

 

ISBN-13: 9781721036677
ISBN-10: 1721036679
ASIN: B07F9TBTNS
 
 
About Whispers in the Wood:
It all began with an acorn.
 
There are some places you shouldn’t disturb, places where history lingers. When Rowan travels to England, she finds a remote village, hidden in the shadow of an ancient forest. Vague warnings from the local people aren’t enough to stop her from venturing into the trees, or from picking up a single acorn. It seemed a simple action. But when a stranger emerges from the forest claiming the acorn belongs to him, Rowan finds herself pulled into something both centuries old and deadly.
 
Excerpt from Whispers in the Wood:

Stars dotted an inky sky and the moon cut a path across the pastures like water. It would have been a beautiful night in other circumstances, one where she would have been happy to go for a midnight walk. But tonight, her senses were on edge and she startled at every sound. Rowan’s feet made sloshing sounds in the wet grass as she hurried towards the church.

The standing stone reflected the moonlight like a beacon. The churchyard beyond it appeared empty, its gravestones pointing like accusing fingers towards the sky. The silence was oppressive and she resisted the urge to whistle. She stole up the steps to the church itself, hoping the teens would be inside.

Pressing her ear against the door, she breathed the pungent scent of burnt wood. Hesitant, Rowan tried the handle. The door gave way and opened with a long, drawn-out creak.

A giggle sounded behind her.

Whipping around, her gaze swept the darkness. The sound was coming from the graveyard itself. A shiver trailed down her spine like icy fingers. “Hello?”

A low whisper drifted with the breeze, followed by another giggle.

“Fiona? Will? Jennifer, Jonathan? C’mon, you guys. Not funny.” She waited for the teens to show themselves. “I’m not going with you to the forest, by the way. I don’t think you should go either.” She walked to where the sound came from and steeled herself for a ‘gotcha’ moment.

Expecting to see the teens hiding behind a gravestone, she was surprised instead by scattered flowers, left like offerings. She picked one up and twirled it in her fingers. The flower’s petals reflected alabaster in the moonlight like finger bones. Freshly picked, the scent of the plucked stem was still strong. Rowan began to toss it aside when she was hit with an icy gust of wind. Her vision clouded and she felt a jarring shift in her surroundings.

She kicked up debris as her feet pounded the forest floor. The trees were a wild blur, as were the smells. The strong scent of greenery mixed with the scent of blood. Her blood. Heart pounding, she saw a bright spot in the distance. Escape. The bright spot grew larger and larger as she tore through the overgrowth towards it. Suddenly, she was jerked off her feet and dragged backward. A scream ripped her throat and everything went black. A sharp pain cut through her spine. Unable to move her arms and legs, she tried to take a breath. Panic welled in her throat like bile.

* * * *
Buy Links:
 
Available via Kindle Unlimited
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Amazon CN
Amazon AU
About the Author:
 
Clarissa Johal is the bestselling author of paranormal novels, Whispers in the Wood, Poppy, The Island, Voices, Struck and Between. When she’s not listening to the ghosts in her head, she’s dancing, taking pictures of gargoyles, or swinging from a trapeze. She shares her life with her husband, two daughters, and every stray animal that darkens their doorstep. 
 
 
Find Clarissa Online:
 

Roses, roses, everywhere

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Once a year for several years, we’ve visited RHS Rosemoor in June when the roses are in bloom. Technically, the season lasts until the end of July, but we’ve always found June a good time. We’re a bit later than usual this year, but there was still much to see. The question was one of which photos to share:

Though we’ve few and nothing like these fabulous flowers, I wish there was such a thing as sharing fragrance online, as I would love to share one of our latest roses with you. Roses can smell like ‘true’ rose, or they can have hints of coconut, melon, even tobacco. This climber is in its first year. Will love to see it when more established.

Dragon #2

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Another dragon share this week (in no particular order). Although I’m often attracted to the unusual dragons, those independent crafters have created on market stalls or stumbled upon in small shops, it’s difficult not to be tempted by more commercial designs. It’s also becoming more impossible to tell whether something has been created in bulk commercially. I once bought what I thought was a handcrafted ornament only to discover a couple of years later there were many of the same design available in various sizes, though that didn’t make me like what I’d bought any less and that’s the important distinction.

 

I’ve had this little Dragon in a Teacup for about eighteen months. I ordered a few items, a couple of which were unavailable. The shop asked whether there was anything else on their site I liked and I said this little chap… who was a pound or two more than what I had paid. I said to bill me for the difference, but they never did. I might not have bothered otherwise, and I’m more delighted with this than I probably would have been with the actual items I’d selected. It’s small and much heavier than it appears to be.

Produced by Nemesis Now, a company from Stoke-on-Trent selling fantasy gifts since 2003. Part of their fairies in a teacup range, I’ve also seen this called the ‘Good Morning Dragon’. The artist is Amy Brown.

Velkommen til Norge!

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I’ve been missing in action, mostly because I’ve been out of the country, and then, when I returned, I spent several days running to catch up. I have… almost. Definitely by next week, if not before the end of this, I’ll return to my WIP. For now, I’m editing a story for a re-release end of this year.

But let’s get back to why I neglected to blog the last three weeks. Blame these little beings:

That’s a Norwegian Troll, this one flying the flag outside of a souvenir shop in Hellesylt. It’s difficult to move more than a few streets without spotting one of these beasties in their various forms. If you’re looking for something to bring home, these pop up everywhere. Most people seem to love them or loathe them (I heard one woman say on this trip, “Such big noses; I just don’t get it.”) Maybe to ‘get it’ you need to look back into Norse Mythology but there’s no question the Norwegian people have taken Trolls to their hearts. We’re told daylight turns them to stone, so all those mountains in Norway are Trolls taken unaware by the sun.

Trolls or not, there’s nothing so breathtaking as the scenery. It’s a place I’ve visited more than once and hope to do so again. Here’s a lovely photo of the mirror-image type which is possible to take on the lakes in the beautiful area of Stryn. The mountains may or may not be trolls, but this kind of landscape makes me want to believe in all possibilities.

Velkommen til Norge! Welcome to Norway.

Images: (c) Sharon Bidwell