D.H.L.Hewa
Our fourth showcase of 2024 turns the spotlight on writer D.H.L. Hewa. She is a writer of fiction who studied for an MA in Creative Writing with the Open University, graduating in 2020, and subsequently became a valued member of our alumni writing group, The 20-20 Club. As you will find from the material below, she is an experienced writer who takes her work seriously and is constantly striving to improve. She writes incredible stories inspired by her own childhood in Sri Lanka, and is hoping to publish these in an anthology at some stage in the future.
Biography
Passing her exams, D.H.L. Hewa went on to obtain a
joint honours degree before starting work in customer facing roles. Whilst
working full time, she studied Interior and 3D design to gain insight into
what’s involved in the making of buildings and furnishings.
Semi-retirement
released time for her to complete an OU Masters in Creative Writing. Unable to
find an easily accessible writing group to help continue her endeavours, she
gratefully accepted the invitation to join the 20-20 group to gain feedback
from peers online.
Her work has
been published by Makarelle, Brightlingsea Lido, Secret Attic, Crossing The
Tees and Castle Priory Press. She was highly commended by Writetime, and
reached the shortlists for flash fictions with Secret Attic, subsequently
winning one of their competitions. She has also been shortlisted on entries in
internal 20-20 writing group competitions judged by external readers, and was
gratified to win one and be placed in the top five in others.
She’s presently
working on completing a collection of Sri Lankan short stories, and
travelogues.
******
DHL Hewa has sent us two examples of her writing. The first is a piece of flash fiction which she entered for the 20-20 Club's recent dribble competition [a dribble is a story told in precisely 50 words - it is half of a drabble, which is a 100-word story]:
In My Class
Dressed in my best. New school. New country. Mother says be careful of, boys. I belly laugh. For goodness sake. Stop worrying. We enter. Two boys grappling. On floor. Mother grabs, pulls me sideways. Receptionist shouts. They carry on. Oh Lord. Oh Lord. They’re in my class.
The second piece is a joyfully entertaining story which was first published in the inaugural edition of Makarelle, in 2021. It has a content warning on it due to minor swearing:
Between
Two Worlds
How
could I not be scared?
There’s
a stealthy, silent enemy moving amongst us. Hiding within friends and family. A
single hug, the touch of a hand, any human contact, has the potential to
kill or maim us. It’s three months after the man behind the lectern gave us his
permission, but I still feel like I’m facing a pack of hungry lions in a
colosseum. We’ve already cancelled two holidays this year.
The
leaves on the trees are changing to red, yellow, orange, and brown, as our last
booked holiday of the year approaches. Should we leave the safety of our
home? Venture out to accommodation vacated by the previous occupants only hours
before? Should we trust our health to the vigilance of the cleaning
crew? My father-in-law used to say that if you live your life being scared, you
may as well lock your front door and throw away the key.
Remembering
this, we make our decision.
It’s
the day after our arrival in Devon.
Juddered
awake by the flickering blue lights of the television, and my husband’s lap
top, I pull the duvet over my head. It’s six thirty in the morning. Breakfast
is served in bed, not to give me a lie-in, but to get me up and ready. Ready to
make the most of the weather which is forecast dry for the morning. Ready to
make use of the fact that there’s no live firing today. Ready for my first
ever, in fact our first ever, sojourn into the depths of Dartmoor.
‘We
need to leave by eight or eight-thirty.’
My husband Theo, aka holiday planner and
activities manager has prepared our ten day itinerary.
‘Can’t we leave later?’ I ask, sitting
up, pulling the covers up to my chin.
‘Not if we want to be back by lunchtime.
Before the showers…’ he says.
For goodness sake. We haven’t
even unpacked properly yet and he wants to be off out. It’s already quarter
past seven!
Puffing out a
loud, long, deep breath, I pull back the covers fiercely, stomping out of bed.
Rushing through my morning routine, I push up suitcase lids, letting them go
with a bang, throwing on my walking clothes, leaving Theo to get our snacks
ready.
The clock tells us it’s quarter past
eight when we rush out, stumbling over a family of blue-green peacocks, the
only other early morning risers. Strutting slowly, oblivious to social
distancing and sanitising, they wander the highly landscaped grounds.
Quietly, quietly, we move around them to
get to our Mazda. Climbing in fast, we pull the doors shut before they can join
us. Putting the key in the ignition, Theo stirs the car to life.
Negotiating
farmers on tractors and quads and parents doing morning school runs, we finally
arrive at our destination.
Only one other car there.
Empty of occupants.
‘That’s our destination,’ Theo says,
pointing to a hill in the distance.
It looks innocuous. Nowhere near the
height or steepness of Scottish mountains. A gentle amble is in store.
Stepping out of the car, I raise my
head, letting the wan October rays caress my face.
So quiet.
So tranquil.
Togging up, I pick up my trekking pole,
bought for a mere ten pounds.
Bargain.
Theo gathers his camera and map.
‘Putting your waterproofs on already?’
he asks.
‘Thought you said it would be soggy,’ I
reply.
Shrugging, he stares at the map in his
hand. He knows the real me. Hating to put on leggings whilst underway.
‘Come on then,’ I call, striding off,
grinning.
The
route, initially along a path, is dry. Waterproof bottoms probably a bit
overkill. Entering a field, we squelch through water running down it.
Wish I’d brought wellingtons.
Aha. A stream. Test my new stick. Have
to find a way across. Theo’s already on the other side,
‘Be careful, just got a boot full of
water,’ he says.
‘Cheers,’ I reply.
‘Might be better to extend your stick to
full length,’ he says.
I do as he suggests, and pull at the
bottom part. It comes off in my hand. Quickly pressing it back in, I twist the
catch, tightening it. Choosing where I want to cross—I move from tussock to
tussock—but as I lean my weight into the pole—the bottom slides back in,
disappearing into the top section of the stick.
‘Bloody hell, stupid cheap piece of
shit,’ I say.
‘What’s happened?’ Theo asks.
‘It’s not tightening properly and it’s gone
back down.’
I wave my shortened stick in the air.
Stretching out his hand, Theo steadies
my skip onto sturdier ground.
‘Let me see,’ he says, taking my pole
off me.
‘Trouble is, you never test your
equipment before you set off,’ he grumbles.
Oh, so it’s all my fault now that
something doesn’t do what it’s supposed to? Biting
my lip, I give him my best glare, which hits a stone wall as he fiddles with
the damn thing.
‘You’ve broken it,’ he says.
‘I haven’t!’
‘There. It’s done,’ he says, passing it
back to me.
‘Thanks.’
Winding our way around the mire, we
trudge, tutting at each change of course. Reaching the bottom of the summit, we
go up, up, up. One highland cow, miles away from home, watches us through her
lock down fringe. A herd of black cattle stare askance as we advance.
Scrunching grass and gravel, we reach the top. Ravens glide and soar, glide,
then soar, jet black shapes above us.
‘Look, a flagpole, they put a red flag
on there when there’s live firing,’ Theo says pointing at the empty
contraption.
He always keeps me well informed.
Standing together next to the grey
flagpole, we catch our breath, taking in the expansive views.
‘Choice of routes now. Through that
boulder field, or down the back of the slope,’ Theo says.
‘Down the back,’ I say, looking at the
vast expanse of unremitting grey stone.
Edging
our way slowly down the steep back of the hill, we finally make it to level
ground. Squelching, we move on, watched by bored black cattle. Best keep my
head down. Been chased by calves on a walk along The Ridgeway path before now.
Concentrating hard on my footsteps,
getting splashed, clambering over small rivulets, balancing precariously on top
of mossy stones and knitting needle tussocks, sinking, slipping on slushy mud,
I lose sight of Theo.
It’s only when I stop—find myself all
alone in the middle of a vast expanse of moor—hear a
fast flowing stream—see rolling hills—see skeleton
bramble bushes—that Sherlock Holmes and the hound come to mind. Shivering, I
pull up the collar of my fleece, then walk, walk, walk.
Oh. Thank God. There’s Theo, waving his
arms, pointing at the best route to get to him.
‘The path has disappeared,’ he says, as
I catch up.
‘Oh good, thought it was me losing it,’
I say, adjusting my pack which is doing its own thing and following the earlier
example set by my stick.
‘Let’s go down towards the stream. We
can follow that,’ Theo says.
Clambering down, now every step is a
tussock. I go back up. More tussocks. My teeth grind. My knees groan. Halting
every three steps to pull my knee guards back up from around my ankles, I stop
the scream rising in my throat. Seeing a sheep track, I battle my way back
down. Stepping gingerly along the grassy clusters of the quaggy trail—I
meander—falling further and further behind.
Looking up, I see Theo waiting for me on
the slope ahead. Rushing forwards, I head straight toward a monumental bog.
No way.
Straight through?
Go to the right on to a steep-sided hill
crammed with tussocks?
Go to the left and slip into a raging
river?
What choice?
Inching forwards, I pick which lumps of
grass in the bog will appreciate my weight.
‘Nooooooo!’
My left foot slides off a moving clump,
entering the mud. Ugh.
Water bubbles into my boot. Pressing my
right foot into a tussock, I jerk my left foot hard.
Splash.
The walking stick slips off the tussock
into the peat, followed closely by my right foot.
‘Oh no!!!!!’
Nothing now stops my fall.
Lying on my left side, I look up at the
vast expanse of sky. Feeling my eyes filling, I bite my lip, drag my dripping
left hand out of the bog water. Grabbing the nearest bit of solid earth, I push
down firmly until I am able to raise myself up.
Heaving back a sob, water trickling off
my clothes, I squish up to Theo. Blue eyes wide, he stands bristling by my
side.
‘It’s horrible. Thought it was going to
be an easy walk,’ I whimper.
‘Right. I’ll go on my own next time,’
Theo shouts, hotfooting away.
Pursing my lips, I trudge behind, eyes
stinging wet, until I see Theo contemplating the river.
‘It looks easier on the other side, but
there’s no way across,’ he says.
We search upstream, then down. The
deafening torrential roar taunts us. Just have to carry on as we are.
Scrambling down a rocky fern strewn path, at long, long last, we reach the
valley bottom.
‘Right. Better change your clothes
before you get cold,’ Theo says.
I now see a muddy purple fleece,
black-brown hands. Pulling off my now brown-blue pack, I dump it on the nearest
cement coloured rock. Fleece, jumper, long sleeve top–is nothing sacred to that
bog? My teeny pink t-shirt and trousers are the only things that are dry.
‘Got a towel? Spare clothes?’
Theo’s voice cuts through the breeze.
‘No...ooo,’ I whisper.
‘Brought an empty pack?’
‘Have a few things…’ I mumble.
Yes I do: scarf, gloves, waterproof top,
two packets of wet wipes, bottle of water, wallet, purse, mobile phone, sun
cream, sun hat. All very useful, other than if one falls in a bog.
Grateful there are no other walkers
about, I remove my wet clothes using any dry edges on them to wipe myself down.
Balancing on the now chilly hillside, I open a packet of wet wipes and scrub,
scrub, scrub at the stubborn mud and grit on my hands and lower arms.
‘You’d be better off washing in the
river,’ Theo pronounces.
‘What? Balance on those stones
and fall in?’ I squeak.
Honestly!!!
‘You’ll be cold. Take my fleece,’ Theo
says, getting ready to take it off.
‘No thanks sweetheart, one of us needs
to stay warm. Lucky I had my over trousers, I’m dry from the waist down. My
waterproof top over my t-shirt should keep the chill off.’
Dressed
in whatever I had spare, I begin warming up. Munching banana, and chocolate, we
look at what’s ahead of us.
A boulder field, stretching far, far,
far into the distance.
Great.
Unable to bear going backwards, we purse
our lips at each other, shake our heads, sigh, and step forwards. Climbing up one side of rock, we slither down
the other—step into and out of root holes—up again, down again. Using both
hands to grab at trees, bushes, edge of boulders, my now not so great bargain
of a stick helps just enough. Sliding on my bottom off slippery large stones I
totter and stumble.
Totter.
Stumble.
Mind protesting about there being, not
so much as a smooth straight path in sight.
‘You’re right about your walking stick.
I’ve just seen the bottom half of another one, in a bog.’ Theo chuckles.
‘See, told you!’
Chortling together we continue our
journey. The rising wind whips our faces, as the sky turns brooding, darkening
the landscape. The rain makes an early entrance, pelting our cheeks. I pull my
hood up tight around my face.
‘I’d better put my waterproofs on. Can
you hold the map and camera?’ Theo says, chucking his pack down on a flattish
rock next to the river bed.
Putting one booted foot into his
trousers, he teeters on the other.
‘Sit on the rock and pull them on,’ I
instruct.
‘I’ll get my walking trousers wet,’ he
retorts.
‘You’re wet now anyway.’
I take a deep, deep breath, and hold it.
Losing his balance, Theo knocks off his
glasses, sending them somersaulting into the rumbling river. Bending into the
coursing water, he grabs, stemming their journey downstream.
‘Hey, they’re cleaner than they went
in,’ he says.
‘Well done. Never seen you move that
fast.’I cackle.
‘At least I didn’t go down like a
wobbly, shaky skittle in slow motion.’ Theo’s guffaw shakes the grass around him.
‘Who’s the person who said,
with the virus around we’d be safer outside than
in?’ I say, scratching my head.
‘Good job we
didn’t have to chose between those two worlds today,’ Theo says looking back at
the way we’ve come.
Catching each other’s eye, shoulders
shaking, laughter echoing around the hill, we trudge, trudge and trudge until
we finally reach the car.
Gratefully
sinking into the leather seats, we gather ourselves, looking up at the hills
rising above us, sipping coffee from a flask, the heater on full blast.
‘Ready to go back?’
‘More than ready.’ I snort.
Yes, I am. More than ready for a warm hot shower, a comfy bed, and the safe enclosure of four brick walls.
******
And finally we come to The Big
Interview, in which DHL Hewa kindly
answers writing-related
questions and lets us into
some of her writing secrets...
Sri Lankan Tea Plantation [photo by Lizzy]
How old were you when you first knew you wanted to be
a writer, and what set you off down that journey?
When I was 11,
my father took me to visit an uncle who was a well-known writer. (Of course, he
could have been a friend rather than a relative as in Sri Lanka we often refer
to friends of family as aunty and uncle).
At the house, a servant
showed us into a room covered in bookshelves over-spilling with books. At one
end of the room, by the window, a man was sitting behind a desk. He moved books
and papers to one side and asked us to sit on the chairs facing him.
Whilst uncle and my
father chatted, I looked around the room, wishing I could do what this man did,
but not having a clue about how to go about it. I didn’t find: out because of
being too shy to ask.
Soon after, on the way
home from school one day, my father suddenly called out,
‘Oh look, there’s
Arthur C Clarke.’
Through the back
passenger window of our car, I saw an Englishman dressed in national dress and
sandals walking along the side of the road. You can imagine my excitement as
I’d recently been taken to see 2001: a Space Odyssey and had heard my
parents mention him but never thought I’d be lucky enough to see the writer whose
story inspired the film.
What really got me was
that writers looked so ordinary, just like you and me.
Some time later, I was
asked by my Sinhalese language teacher and classmates to convert already
written stories into plays which we then performed on stage, so my writing
journey began with venturing into playwriting.
Tell us about the books and writers that have shaped
your life and your writing career.
I was brought
up on the classics: George Eliot, the Brontes, Dickens, Louisa May Alcott,
Laura Ingalls Wilder, Hardy, Conrad, Orwell, D.H. Lawrence, Steinbeck, poets
such as Blake, Wordsworth and Shelley, and playwrights such as Shakespeare and
John Webster.
These authors and also later Graham Green
and R.K. Narayan have influenced my writing style.
Have your children, other family members, friends or teachers inspired any of your writing?
Yes
definitely.
Family history provides a constant flow of
ideas. My husband, middle nephew and my niece-in-law kindly help with research.
In addition, my husband provides lots of ideas for stories. I wish he’d write himself
but he says it’s not for him.
My second-year Open University tutor also
keeps in touch with me and has been an immense motivator and mentor,
encouraging me to keep working on my story collection.
In Sri Lanka, I had a wonderful English
teacher who made learning pure joy. Luckily for me, the teacher in my Welsh
school also loved her job. She got us all reading our work out loud each week
and voting for the ones we liked best. The top scoring stories were then
recorded by the writers and retained for the future.
The school magazine had
already gone to print when this teacher asked the editors to publish a story
I’d written about leaving Sri Lanka, On
her insistence, they put in an extra sheet to accommodate my story. I was
really embarrassed to be the cause of fuss, but also secretly pleased. My older
sister said that when her classmates in sixth form read the piece, they asked
her if she’d helped me write it, and my sister told them the truth, that it was
all my own work, and the first time she’d seen it was in the magazine.
In the first year of my degree, my English tutor said
that I should take up writing as a career, but I didn’t pursue this advice until now.
Does the place you live now, or have lived in the
past, have any impact on your writing?
Even in Sri
Lanka, I was writing the same way I do now, so I would say my style will always
be the same despite where I live. However, I do use my locations to base my
stories in, as I’m a strong believer in authenticity. Global travel and easy
transportation have made people more knowledgeable about other cultures, so
it’s important stories ring true to maintain reader interest.
I wouldn’t say I’ve travelled widely, but I
have managed to visit a small number of other countries and these experiences
have given me useful material for stories. Travelling has been, and is, very
important to me, broadening my outlook and empathy toward others.
How would you describe your own writing?
My genre is
realism. Everyday life and people fascinate me.
I love reading fantasy such as Tolkien and
stories about witches, wizards and ghosts, spy thrillers such as John le Carre,
and crime by Agatha Christie and Ian Rankin but my style is very different.
Are there certain themes that draw you to them when
you are writing?
Yes. People
overcoming everyday obstacles which are thrown at them such as discrimination,
losing loved ones, facing illness, addiction, bullying, unemployment and so on.
Tell us about how you approach your writing. Are you a
planner or a pantser?
I’m a
combination.
I don’t plan in great depth, which is a
constant source of angst to my husband, but have a general idea when I set off
as to what I want to achieve.
The planning comes in when I have to
research, which I do for almost all of my stories anyway as it helps with
accuracy of time, place, culture, and can even serve as a refresher to places
which I’ve visited but been unable to return to.
Do you have any advice for someone who might be
thinking about starting to write creatively?
Start, learn
from other writers by joining a writing group, do the best course you can
afford, read books, and write every day even if it’s just for a few minutes.
Are you, or have you been in the past, a member of any
writing groups, online or face-to-face?
After my Masters, I couldn’t find an
easily accessible writing group. Fortunately, some of us from the course wanted
to keep in touch so a contact group was set up by Becky, which then developed
into the 20-20 club of regulars due to the energy and organisation of Lou.
I now have a
solid platform of support and great feedback for my writing, which has enabled
me to gain publication and increased my confidence to send my work into
competitions.
I will always
be grateful to Becky and Lou for enabling me to improve.
You have an MA in Creative Writing. Have you studied
creative writing on other formal courses?
A very long
time ago I tried to do a writing course from an advert in a paper, but couldn’t
get into it and let it lapse even though I’d paid money for it.
My husband felt there
was something there and without letting me know, searched the internet, and
finding some free courses, encouraged me to do these with him. He then got me
the details of the Open University Creative Writing Masters saying: ‘You keep
leaving bits of paper everywhere with bits of stories, why don’t you do this?‘
If not for him, I’d
still be thinking about it.
What do you think about getting feedback on your work
from other writers and/or non-writers?
I was
initially very scared , but seeing the benefits other writers were getting from
it, I took the plunge, figuring it was better to get help to iron out foibles
before sending work to publishers.
I also ask non-writers for feedback as it’s a
fantastic way of assessing the market and finding out what appeals to general
readers.
If you have experience of self-publishing, what have
been its challenges and rewards?
I haven’t self
-published yet, and have tremendous admiration for the likes of the editors of Makarelle
and Castle Priory Press who have done this, and will approach them for their
expertise if I decide to take this route for my own work, in the hope that
they’ll be willing to accept me.
Where do you get your ideas from?
Anywhere.
Newspaper articles, museums, general conversations, visits to historic places,
mansions, walks, travel, but mostly from personal experiences.
They say that successful writers need to be selfish.
How far do you agree with this?
The only
discipline I have with regard to writing is that I do it daily.
I avoid a set time in
order to allow for the unexpected, and the amount written is governed by time
available. If an idea occurs to me at work I make a note in my phone at
lunchtime. A colleague asked if I read during lunch, and I said no, just put
ideas into my phone or text friends. I don’t write on my work days as I’m just
too tired.
When I’m writing,
however, I am selfish in that I’m fully in the moment, and get irritable if
interrupted.
Beyond your family and your writing, what other things
do you do?
I work part time now, so it allows me
time to enjoy cooking, watching TV, reading, cycling, sailing, walking etc.
My
physical activities have helped me compile several creative non-fiction pieces
which I hope to release at a future date.
I
learnt to play classical piano late in life purely for enjoyment, but this in
turn has given me ideas to incorporate into my work.
Would
you describe yourself as a ‘cultured’ person?
We didn’t have
television when I was growing up, so reading, telling each other stories and
listening to story hour on radio was the norm.
I enjoy going to the
theatre, visiting art galleries, museums, castles and old houses.
The worst book I ever read was a
crime novel set in Scotland, and it had so many inaccuracies and the plot was
so obvious I guessed who’d done it after chapter one so I skipped to the end to
prove myself correct and save myself the effort!
Are
you interested in history and if so does it impact on your writing?
I have
inherited my father’s love of history. He made sure we were aware of our past
by taking us on visits to historic sites, temples, ruins and so on.
I used to work in an old castle in the UK
during school holidays. It was wonderfully atmospheric, and a great resource.
I have written stories
inspired by wars, visits by monarchs to old houses and so on. To help me write
these, my research involved visits to the places, museums, gravesides,
lighthouses, submarines, ships such as destroyers, and racing pits.
I don’t think writers need a good
knowledge of current affairs, science, technology etc, but they do need an
awareness of these fields. Research via the internet, visits to places, and
libraries are freely accessible these days to fill gaps in knowledge.
How
did the Covid pandemic affect you as a writer?
I was working
throughout Covid, but doing reduced hours which gave me additional time for the
assignments for my Masters. It also provided additional material for future
stories.
Where would you place your own stories/poems, on a
continuum with PURE FANTASY at one end and COMPLETE REALISM at the other?
I would say my
work is more towards the realism spectrum of the continuum, but even though I
never write fantasy or sci-fi I do read and enjoy them infrequently.
Although I favour realism to read and write, I think fantasy and sci fi
play a very important role in giving readers an escape outlet from everyday
traumas. Sci fi is my least favourite genre, but it teaches us the
possibilities of other existences and worlds beyond our own, giving us hope and
the desire to explore other planetary systems.
******
Thank you very much, DHL, for such a detailed and insightful showcase.
******
In May, I will be showcasing
another of the fabulous 20-20 Club writers:
Tonia Dunn
Not to be missed!
******
So far in this series, I’ve showcased the following writers:
Ruth
Loten – March 2023
Jane Langan
– March 2023
BeckCollett
– 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
You can find all these showcases by scrolling back
through the material on this blog.
