A Collaboration
I recently became aware of a wonderful collection of short stories written by Dr Trefor Stockwell and illustrated by Gae Stenson [who is also a talented writer herself].
The book is not yet completed, but, once it is, I will certainly let people know on here. However, for now I have decided to do TWO showcases for March 2025, one for Trefor and one for Gae.
I hope you enjoy them.
Dr Trefor Stockwell
I am very pleased to introduce our fourth showcased writer of 2025, Dr Trefor Stockwell. Trefor is currently collaborating with Gae Stenson to produce a book of illustrated short stories [Trefor is showcased alongside Gae this month].
Biography
Trefor is of
an age when he should know better, but probably doesn’t. His career has been quite
varied, being at times a soldier, civil servant, actor, mature student, tutor
and writer. He calls Wales his home, but has lived and worked in a variety of
foreign locations: Libya, Oman, Northern Ireland, Bulgaria, Romania and Russia.
Ha has also lived and worked in various locations in mainland Britain:
Yorkshire, Dorset, Cornwall, Stratford-upon-Avon and London. He now resides
permanently in a small village on Ynys Mon with his wife and, apart from the
occasional visit to their apartment in Moscow, rarely leaves the island.
Trefor has
written one novel, Clerical Errors,
Secular Lies, based loosely on actual events, but now out of print. However,
he is considering a revamp, but revised and with a new title. He is also
working on two other novels.
His first short
story collection, which is at the
core of his PhD Thesis, Magical Realism:
Master or Servant? has since been published as a collection in its own
right entitled Bread and Wine. His
new collection, The Bureau of Lost Things,
illustrated by Gaynor Stenson is due to be published later this year. The
stories were written during the writer’s visits to Russia and are partly
anecdotal, inspired by the characters met and incidents experienced there. He is planning on approaching a Russian publishing company with a view to
marketing a translated version in the Russian language there.
Trefor has
published two collections of poetry: Life,
Love, Politics and Other Silliness and Taking Back Control, and Other Nonsense. He also has had work
featured in various anthologies, the most recent being, Coed, a collection supporting the campaign to save Penrhos Nature
Reserve.
When Trefor
isn’t working at his laptop, he reads, walks and befriends any dog he meets; he
loves dogs enough never to own one, not being in a position to care for it properly,
preferring instead to carry a pocket full of dog chews with which to bribe the
creatures. It is a situation which pleases him and the dogs.
Links
******
Trefor has sent us a story and several poems as a sample of his work. Enjoy!
Professor Sergei Vitaly Kuznetzov was convinced that he was safe from harm and would not die unexpectedly simply because, as he had pointed out recently to his slightly bemused cousin, Marusja, after she had warned about the dangers of being overweight, God would not allow him to die until his work was completed. It came then as a complete surprise to him when, late one evening in early September, following a persistent hammering on the knocker, he angrily opened the door of his apartment to reveal the imposing figure of the angel of death.
Despite the fact that the figure was over seven feet tall dressed entirely in
black and had a beard that stretched down to his knees, Sergei did not
immediately recognise him as the angel of death. Instead he mistook him for yet
another of the itinerant salesmen who were fast becoming a nuisance in the
district, and addressed him angrily:
‘Whatever it is you’re selling, I do
not need it, want it or desire it. What is more, have you any idea what time of
night this is?’ The figure leaned down until his mouth was inches away from
Sergei’s face, and breathed a huge sigh before replying:
‘Yes, Professor, I know what time it
is’. The figure breathed another sigh before continuing – Sergei felt repelled
by the noxious fumes, which smelled vaguely of earth, disease and rotting
things. ‘It is your time. It is your time to leave, Sergei.’
‘My “time”? What are you talking
about? And who are you, coming here at this time of night, disturbing me? Have
you any idea who I am? I’ve a good mind to report this to the Academy of
Sciences. What have you got to say to that?’
The figure smiled, and heaved
another sigh before answering:
‘I have nothing to say to that, Professor, and your protestations change nothing. It is your time, and I have
come to collect you. I have the necessary paperwork here if you’d care to
check.’
‘Time? Collect? What on earth are you talking about? And who
in God’s name are you, anyway?’
‘It matters not who I am, professor, but you are correct in
one thing: I do come in God’s name.’ Sergei was now even more enraged, because
if there was one thing he disliked more than being disturbed late at night, it
was someone blaspheming in front of him.
‘How dare you come into my house and blaspheme? I would like
you to leave immediately please. If you refuse I shall phone the police and
have you forcibly ejected.’ So saying, he opened the door and pointed the way
out.
The figure smiled, raised one eyebrow, then reaching out, and
gently closed the door.
‘We need to talk, Professor, but be assured, before this night
is through you will be coming with me. There can be no argument: you have been
called, it is your time and I am here to take you. What is more, I take you in
God’s name.’ Sergei had a sudden moment of revelation, turned pale and began to
tremble.
‘I think I need to sit
down. Are you who I think you are? Are you – are you really - ?’ Here Sergei
broke off, unable to complete the question. The figure gently placed his hand on
the tearful Sergei’s shoulder before answering:
‘Yes, Sergei, I am who you think I am. Now do you
understand?’
‘Well, yes, but there must be some mistake: I’m not ready to
go, my work here is unfinished. It is most important and only I can complete
it. Surely there is some kind of appeal system? God would not allow this.’
‘Sergei, Sergei, who do you think ordered this? Who do you
think signed this collection docket? Here, read it if you don’t believe me.’ The
figure stretched out his hand and offered Sergei a rolled parchment. ‘Read it,
Sergei, look at the signature.’ Sergei waved the document away, put his head in
his hands and allowed the tears to flow. The figure waited patiently until
Sergei had recovered his composure sufficiently to allow him to speak:
‘If I go with you, answer me this: is heaven as it is
described? Is it a paradise?’
‘It is, Sergei, and more besides, but there is no guarantee
that is where you will go: there are questions to be asked first. Only the most
deserving go straight there, the majority have to atone for a misspent life.’
‘Well, I won’t have any worry on the score: I have led a
blameless life: I am without sin.’
‘Are you sure, Sergei? Are you that certain?
‘Of course I’m certain: I don’t steal, I don’t cheat, I don’t
kill. I go to church every Sunday, and I contribute to the offertory box –
always notes, never coins. Blameless, I tell you.’
‘Sergei, all that means nothing. You’re not judged by what
earthly sins you have committed, or on how often you attend church. When God
gave humanity the gift of free will he knew full well that it would be misused. It would therefore be very unfair for to him to judge on indulgence of
weaknesses that are inbuilt into the human psyche, would it not? No, you should
concern yourself with things you have not done rather than on the things you
have. You should also look very closely at your reasons for acting in the way
that you do.’
‘What do you mean? I lead my life simply to please God: I am
guided by him in all things.’
‘Sergei,
look into your own heart for the truth of this. You may convince yourself of
your own self-deceptions, but please don’t expect us to be fooled: we know
exactly why you “lead your life” the way you do, so please don’t insult our
intelligence by trying to convince us otherwise.’ Here, Sergei angrily tried to
interrupt, but the figure silenced him with stern look that invited no
argument, before continuing: ‘We know you go to Church each Sunday. You go not
out of piety, but because you are concerned what your neighbours might think if
you did not. We also know that, when you put your notes in the Offertory Box, you do
so, not out of any feeling of benevolence, but because it makes you look good.
Moreover, you always ensure that your note exceeds the value of your immediate
neighbour; again, not for altruistic reasons, but simply to make your fellow
worshiper feel inadequate.’ Sergei was unsure how to answer this tirade of
abuse, for he was beginning to see a grain of truth in it, and felt uncertain
how to answer the charges. Finally, he made up his mind and began to speak
again:
‘If what you
say is true, and I’m not saying that it is, but if it is true, then surely I must
deserve credit for doing the right thing even if it is for the wrong reasons.
It must make me a better person than someone who sins, who doesn’t go to Church
or who doesn’t put money in the Offertory Box. Is that not the case?’
‘No, Sergei,
it most definitely is not “the case”. You have much to answer for, my friend,
and not much credit in your favour. Ask yourself this question: when was the
last time you helped a stranger, offered assistance to a friend or relative in
need, or supported someone morally? Don’t bother answering, Sergei, because the
answer is never, not once in your whole life. Instead, you accepted kindnesses
without ever offering thanks or reciprocating in any way. You have shown no
love or empathy for your fellow man. You, in short, Sergei, are one of life’s
users, and, my friend, you are in big trouble, with less chance of passing the tests
that lie before than some of the out and out scoundrels that I know.’
‘What? Are
you saying some bandit, some thief, some rascal, is a better person than I? How
can that be? How is that fair, or just?’
‘Yes, Sergei, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. Let me give you an example, I won’t tell you his name, because we have strict rules on confidentiality, but suffice it to say that this man stands as an example to us all – I shall refer to him simply as Igor.
‘Up until he died, Igor lived a life totally devoid of goodness: he lied, he cheated, he stole and was work-shy. He never once attended Church, apart from once to steal money from the Offertory Box. Now, Sergei, judged by your standards this man would have no chance of entering the Kingdom of Heaven, But he did, and all because of one incident which was enough to expunge all supposed sins, an incident of pure altruistic goodness. Would you like to know what he did, Sergei? Of course you would, I can see it in your eyes.
'Well, it happened like this: on this particular day, Igor was running away from the police – this was a frequent occurrence with him, you understand. Anyway, in his attempt to evade capture, he ran down into a Metro station and was weaving his way through the crowd when he spotted a child. The child had dropped its toy, and in reaching to catch it had fallen in front of a fast approaching train. Igor reacted immediately: jumped down onto the track, snatched the child up and had time enough to throw it clear into its mother’s arm before being hit by the train – his death was instantaneous. He did this, Sergei, not because he wanted people to think him a hero, though many did, and not because he wanted his fellow travellers, who had not attempted to save the child, to feel bad, but because it was not in his nature to do otherwise. In that split second he empathised with the child, sacrificed his own life and in doing so wiped all real or supposed sin. Now do you understand Sergei?’
Sergei thought for a moment, but could not come to terms with the figure’s reasoning. It appeared impossible to him that this criminal, this low life, this unchristian man, could be accepted while he, the most pious of men – in his eyes – would have to be questioned. He turned to his interrogator and resumed his indignant argument:
‘This is ridiculous. Are you telling me that this man is
forgiven even though he did not repent? Perhaps you would like me to throw
myself under a Metro train, sacrifice myself and all my work?’
‘No, Sergei, I don’t, and I doubt you have it in you, anyway.
In a similar situation, you would expect others to do it; you’d probably be too
busy, or afraid of being late for Church. No, Sergei, his was an extreme case.
Most people manage by a number of kind acts to build up credit over time.
Moreover, many do so without ever having set foot inside a Church.’
‘What? You’ll be telling me that atheists and agnostics have
more chance than me next! This is madness. How can these people be accepted if
they never go to Church or worship?’ At this point, the figure began to laugh, a
cackling sound that hurt Sergei’s ears and sent shivers of fear through him.
‘Oh Sergei! Your naivety astounds me. What you need to be
aware of, my friend, is that the established Church has very little to do with
God. Ah! I see that surprises you, but it happens to be true: the established
Church was invented by man, and panders to man’s needs, not God’s. You talk to
me of atheists and agnostics as though they commit the most grievous of sins,
but you’re wrong, for many are the nicest and kindest people you could wish to
meet. When they commit a kind act, it’s not out of some misguided sense of
religious fervour, but simply because they have an innate sense of compassion.
In fact, when they come, they supply us with much amusement: the look on their
faces when they realise that their disbelief has been a mistake is quite something
to behold. God loves them, though, and once he has stopped laughing, they rarely
have many questions to answer. You could learn a lot from watching how they
lead their lives; watch your little cousin, Marusja.’
‘My cousin? She is a dreadful woman, and completely lacking
in respect. She understands nothing about me or my work.’
‘She understands more than you give her credit for, Sergei.
She does much for you: cooking, cleaning, sewing, running errands, the list is
endless. Why do you think she does that, Sergei? She receives nothing in return,
not even a thank you. So why does she do it, do you think?’
‘It’s her duty as a relative, and she knows how important my
work is; she doesn’t understand it, but she does know it’s important.’
‘She knows it’s important to you, Sergei, and she understands
much more than you think, but that has nothing to do with it. She does these
things not because it’s her “duty” but because she feels sorry for you: she, an atheist, sees you with no friends, no interests outside the narrow scope of
your researches, enslaved by your fanatical support for the Church and pities
you; yes, Sergei, your little cousin puts up with you arrogance purely out of
pity.’
‘If, as you say, she pities me – and I can’t imagine why she
would – then why does she continually mock me, make fun of my beliefs? Answer
me that.’
‘Because, Sergei, you amuse her, and because the alternative
would be to get angry, storm out of your life and leave you to your own
devices. She is far too caring a person to do that, so instead she chooses to
laugh at your ridiculous sense of self esteem.’
‘”Ridiculous?” How can that be? My work is world renowned, I
am respected in my field and my students adore me.’
‘Sergei, there was a time when your work was approved, but that was long ago: it has now been superseded by others. Yes, you still have respect, but only for what you did, not for what you are doing, and I’m sorry to tell you this, Sergei, but your students either fear you, or mock you - occasionally both. So for you, my friend, your time here on earth is over and you must now come with me and face God’s justice.’
Sergei grew pale, because he knew now that the figure could not be argued with, knew in his heart that all that had been said was true and, for the first time, he felt ashamed of the way he had lived that life.
‘What if I refuse to come? What if I wish to stay, to undo a
little of all I have done? Please, spirit, let me stay a while and try.’ So
saying, Sergei sank to his knees and clasped tight to the sink stem. The figure
made no reply, but reached out and took him firmly by the hand.
‘Come, Sergei, it is your time, it is useless to refuse.’ With
this, the figure started to pull and Sergei screamed, and screamed, and
screamed.
When Sergei awoke the following morning, he was surprised to find that he had fallen asleep with his arms wrapped round the sink stem. He was puzzled at first as to how he came to be in such a position – he rarely went near his sink, relying instead on his cousin’s twice weekly visits to clear away the week’s detritus – slowly, though, his memory of the night’s events came back to him and he began to laugh, quietly at first, but, as he prodded various parts of his body, just to ensure that he was still in human form, he began to realise that it had all been a dream, and his laughter became louder until he was beside himself with the joy of relief. Eventually, he calmed down enough to raise himself from the floor, and - accompanied by the occasional chuckle - began to tidy: Marusja was due to visit the following day, and he was going to surprise her with a clean flat and an invitation for dinner at the local restaurant. He imagined the look of absolute amazement on her face when confronted with this small miracle, and once more burst into laughter.
******
When The Darkness Came
When the darkness finally
came
As we always knew it would
Most blamed greed
That need for bigger, better,
faster
That need for profit
That need to balance the
books
Too late we began to realise
That not everything has a
price
Some things would not show on
any balance sheet
These were the most important
things.
There were those that warned
us
But they were laughed at,
ridiculed
Labelled 'tree huggers' or
'left wing loonies'
'A danger to business'.
When the waters began to rise
Storms and hurricanes wrecked
crops
And the ice caps began to
melt
We were told 'not to worry'
It was just 'coincidence'.
Still we did nothing
Bad for business
Believed the rumours of 'fake
news'
And slowly it happened.
So when the darkness came
We were not surprised
But we could not really blame
Greed or profit or business
The real culprit was
Our own apathy.
******
Windrush
'Come.' They said
Our former masters
'Come, help us rebuild the
New Jerusalem'
Not wishing to offend our
'Mother country'
We went
How could we not
We were, so they told us,
British.
Smoothing our hair with
Brylcream
Dressed in our Sunday-best-going-to-church-christenings
and weddings- ill-fitting suits
With our mock-leather highly-polished
shoes pinching our toes
And our few belongings packed
in our economy valises
We left our poverty
And sailed on the ship
To Tilbury.
We were free men
We were British.
When we finally arrived
To the grey-unwelcoming-wetness
of our adopted land
There were no bands to greet
us
Just stern faced officials
Unsmiling
Handing us travel warrants
To cities we had only heard
of
Still, we were stoic
We had a new start
We had hope
We were British.
Our smiles of greeting were
not returned
People found us strange
Different
Most were afraid to meet our
gaze
Some showed open hatred,
which we did not understand
Called us:
'Coons'
'Coconuts'
'Niggers'
'Black Bastards'.
Some made a conscious effort
to make contact
But they did not know what to
say
And the attempts were false
Condescending
An embarrassment to both
The relationship between
ex-master and ex-slave
Is a difficult one to
reconnoitre
Even though we all were
British.
We were puzzled by the
notices in the boarding house windows
'No Irish'
'No Dogs'
'No Blacks'
Why Us?
We thought
Don't they know
We are British?
They said we would all leave
after the first Winter
Not used to the harsh cold
season
They were wrong
We stayed
Had families
Worked
Paid taxes
Contributed
We were British.
Can't mean us, we thought
When the speech was made
What have we to do with
'Rivers of blood'?
Were we really
'Piccaninnies'?
We knew enough of whips
To know we would never want
The 'whip hand'
Surely this could not be us
We were British.
Our families grew, thrived
Became Doctors
Nurses
Lawyers
Policemen
Became part of the national
fabric
Made us proud
We were British.
Then came the 'New
Immigration Act'
We thought nothing of it
Trusted our leaders to know
best
Asked no questions
Why should we?
We were safe
We were British.
Time passed
And the phrase 'hostile
environment'
entered into the lexicon
Still we did not question
They knew what they were
doing
We had nothing to fear
We lived in a civilised land
We were secure
We were British.
Then the rumours started
Friends of a friend had been
arrested
It was strange
But we argued 'they must have
done something'
The police don't arrest with
no evidence
Couldn't possibly happen to
us
After all
We were British.
The rumours persisted
Silly we thought
How could you not prove you
were British?
Just mischief making
False news
Nothing to do with us
We've been here for years
We are British.
But then came the knock on the
door
Two in morning it was
We were arrested
Taken to the airport
Told to 'go home'
We said 'this is our home'
We are British
But they did not listen
Ignored our pleas
Our bewilderment
Our tears
Told us
'You are not welcome'
'Aliens'
You are not British
So here we are
Strangers in a strange land
Friendless
Homeless
Destitute
Wondering how this could
happen
When we were British?
We were, weren't we?
******
Godrevy Sands
You always felt the pull of the sea
The water drew you to it.
In childhood, before the darkness
descended,
You would run barefoot in sibling joy
Towards the waves,
Always towards the waves.
Later, divorced from the coast
The blackness came.
Was that a symptom?
Were you yearning for the sands
beneath your feet?
Or were you Stifled
Choked by the demands
Of the arty-fart-literati
That was the Bloomsbury Diaspora?
Were you really part of that?
Or were you still longing for ‘a room
of one’s own’?
Was it this that drove you to it?
That made you finally choose the
Ouse’s muddy embrace.
Was it madness, or a moment of total
clarity?
Whatever it was you left us with your
words
Torrents of them
A great stream of disconnected
thought
That left us, amazed, astounded
And, yes, at times perplexed.
******
The stoat
Walking in the forest in early Spring
My mind wandering in easy thought
I was distracted by a flash of white
Balletic in its movement
A living breathing Tincture to
delight the eye and sooth the soul
It paused to sniff the air
Then sensing the sometime wickedness
of man
It scampered off, a delightful memory
for future dark days.
It saddens me now to think
That such God-given beauty
Will one day be sacrificed
To adorn some crown
Some Chapeau
Some canopy royal
Such is the selfish arrogant vanity
of my species.
[First published in Coed Collection]
******
When We Weren’t Looking
When we weren’t looking
To busy with our digits
On our mobile phones
They came and stole our souls
Not all at once
Or we might have noticed
But bit by bit
Until one day
We were unable to see
The Unicorns grazing
In the pastures
Of our minds.
When we weren’t looking
They came and stole our words
One by one
They disappeared
And we did not argue
But watched
As the poetry died.
When we weren’t looking
They came and stole imagination
So we could no longer dream
Aspire or strive.
When we weren’t looking
They came and stole all hope
And to our shame.
We just acquiesced.
******
I Am Invisible to Them.
I am
invisible to them
An
embarrassing pile of rags
A warning of
what might be
A threat to
complacency
I am
Invisible to them
I am nothing
to this passing stream of legs
Too busy
going to work
Or going
home
‘Home’ that magical
word.
I am
invisible to them
Though an
occasional coin will drop
More rarely
a word of compassion
Why?
Perhaps they
fear a contagion.
I am
invisible to them
A blight on
the landscape
A dreadful
reminder of the what if of life
Therefore:
not welcome.
I am
invisible to them
That little piece of effluent
They can
never flush away
The running
sore on the underbelly of society
Disconcerting
Discomforting
Disgraceful
That is why
I am invisible to them.
And finally we come to The Big
Interview, in which Trefor kindly
answers writing-related
questions and lets us into
some of her writing secrets...
1: How old were you when you first knew you wanted to be a writer, and what set you off down that journey?
I have always lived inside my head and escaped reality through imagination. As a child I was always inventing fantasy situations, not unusual in most children, but in my case I never appeared to grow out of it. As to when I seriously considered picking up a pen and transferring my imaginings onto the page, that came much later in life after my early retirement from the Civil Service aged 49 and my decision to enter university and complete my degree.
2: Tell us about the books and writers that have shaped your life and your writing career.
There are many writers I admire, some of whom I can and do reread: Dickens, Austen, Hardy, to name but a few. There are also some I admire, but find difficult to read and enjoy. One such is Virginia Woolf. There’s no denying that she deserves her place in the pantheon of great English writers, but her writing leaves me unmoved, which probably says more about me than it does about her. However, I do appear to have become fascinated by her life, and to have dogged her footsteps in some ways. I lived for a while near Carbis Bay in Cornwall with a view out to the lighthouse at Godrevy, and also in Lewes which is where she allegedly committed suicide. It was during a walk along the bank of the river Ouse that I was inspired to write ‘Godrevy Sands’. Then there are the two writers I not only admire and reread, but who have inspired me in some way: Salman Rushdie and Angela Carter, both of whom were studied as part of my PhD thesis, Magical Realism: Master or Servant?
3: Have your children, other family members, friends or teachers inspired any of your writing? In what way?
My father disappeared from my life when I was thirteen years old, returning over fifty years later. His return inspired the writing of my poems ‘Lost for Words’ and ‘I finally Got to Call you Dad’ both of which are published in my collection ‘Life, Love, Politics and Other silliness'. The collection also includes a poem written following the death of my mother ‘Funeral of a Woman Called Mother’
4: How would you describe your own writing?
Most of my poetry
is written with performance in mind. As for prose, that varies depending on the subject. My ‘style or form’ is perhaps best summed up by quoting my
PhD mentor Professor Ian Davison: ‘Trefor, your prose is poetic and your poetry prosaic’. He was smiling at the time, so I assumed it was
complimentary.In novel writing, I tend to plan, but rarely do the characters
allow me to stick to it. Poetry tends to be a spontaneous reaction to events, especially so with my more political poems.
5: Do you have any advice for someone who might be thinking about starting to write creatively?
My advice to anyone feeling the urge to write is just do it, get words on the page and change them later if needed. Do this on a daily basis, and when you aren’t writing then read, and if the author has made you laugh, or cry, or slam the book shut in disgust, then ask yourself how they have managed to arouse such emotion. There is much to be learned from the work of others.
6: Are you, or have you been in the past, a member of any writing groups, online or face-to-face?
I am a member of Cybi Poets. We used to meet as a group on a monthly basis to share work and to receive and offer constructive critique. We also used to attend open mike events. Unfortunately, Covid put paid to all of that, but we hope to reconvene our meetings quite soon.
7: Have you ever studied creative writing at university or any other courses?
In July 2005, I obtained a ‘Post Graduate Certificate in Creative Writing’ from Bangor University. Then in July 2014, I completed my Doctorate, also in Creative writing.
8: What do you think about getting feedback on your work from other writers and/or non-writers?
I appreciate all feedback, but especially that obtained from other writers. It is difficult to critique one’s own work, so constructive criticism is always welcome, though not always acted upon
9: They say that successful writers need to be selfish. How far do you agree with this?
I would argue that all artists are selfish, but not in a bad way. It’s more a case of being by nature very much divorced from society in order to observe rather than participate. Personally, I enjoy socialising, but on my own terms, in small doses and with one ear cocked for quotable conversation.
10: Beyond your family and your writing, what other things do you do?
When not hunched over my laptop, I enjoy walking, cooking and chatting to any animals I happen to meet. This may sound a little mad, but it’s quite surprising how responsive they can be, especially dogs, cats and horses.
11: Would you describe yourself as a ‘cultured’ person?
I love
the theatre; having spent two years in Stratford-upon-Avon with privileged
access to RSC productions, I became addicted to the Bard. I also love music,
especially classical: lights out, glass of wine and no interruptions is my idea
of heaven. However, I hate musac: in supermarkets, shops, lifts and while
waiting for my questions not to be answered on the phone. It is a pet hate of
mine. Why? It’s as if someone has decided that we humans are afraid of silence
and that the mad axe-man one happens to be trapped in the lift with is going to
be soothed by a bit of Debussy or the latest rapper. Utter madness.
12: Are you interested in history and if so does it impact on your writing?
If I
hadn’t chosen to study English as a first degree then I probably would have
chosen history. We humans could learn much by studying the mistakes of the
past, the fact that we singularly fail to do so is of great sadness to me. Many
of the stories included in my collection ‘Bread and Wine’ were inspired by the
history of Bulgaria.
13: How did the Covid pandemic affect you as a writer?
I was travelling back and forth to Russia during the Covid Pandemic. That, combined with the war in Ukraine, meant that simple trip direct to Moscow was transformed into a logistical nightmare akin to the D day Landings: visa restrictions, proof of valid negative Covid test and indirect flights via obscure airports not operating sanctions – my favourite was Baku in Azerbaijan. However, Covid restrictions in Moscow were the inspiration to ‘Kafka on the Metro’ a story in my new collection ‘The Bureau of Lost Things’ so it wasn’t all bad.
14: There is a lot of talk at the moment. in the publishing world and elsewhere, about political correctness, the Woke movement, cultural appropriation, ‘cancel culture’, ‘trigger warnings’, sensitivity readers and the importance of diversity. What are your thoughts on this, with regard to writing?
I think we are all aware what the so-called ‘war against Wokery’ is all about. Personally, I intend to remain compassionate, understanding, kind and proudly Woke.
15: Where would you place your own writing, on a continuum with PURE FANTASY at one end and COMPLETE REALISM at the other?
The Title of my PhD thesis gives a clue to my answer to this question. However, providing it is well written, and gives pleasure to the reader, then there is room for ‘pure fantasy’, ‘complete realism’ or a combination of both.
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Thank you very much, Trefor, for such an interesting and informative showcase.
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In April, I will be showcasing
a fabulous writer whose latest book
has just been launched:
Karen Downs-Barton
Not to be missed!
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So far in this series, I’ve showcased the following writers:
Ruth Loten – March 2023
Jane Langan – March 2023
Beck Collett – April 2023
Ron Hardwick – June 2023
L.N.Hunter – July 2023
Katherine Blessan – August 2023
Jill Saudek – September 2023
Colin Johnson – October 2023
Sue Davnall – November 2023
Alain Li Wan Po – December 2023
Lily Lawson – January 2024
Philip Badger – February 2024
Glen Lee – March 2024
DHL Hewa - April 2024
Tonia Trainer - May 2024
Mike Poyzer – June 2024
Judith Worham - July 2024
Chrissie Poulter - August 2024
Adele Sullivan - September 2024
Lin De Laszlo - October 2024
Wendy Heydorn - November 2024
Elisabeth Basford - December 2024
Karen Honnor - January 2025
Sharon Henderson - February 2025
Gae Stenson - March 2026 [collaboration]
Dr Trefor Stockwell - March 2025 [collaboration]
You can find all these showcases by scrolling back through the material on this blog.
