April's Writer Showcase - D.H.L.Hewa

 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.

DHL Hewa sailing in Scotland  [photo by GD]

Biography

In the 1970s, D.H.L. Hewa’s parents were prompted to seek jobs overseas to enable their children to continue their education uninterrupted, as Civil unrest in Sri Lanka led to schools being closed for several months.   Emigrating to the UK, leaving all they knew behind, the family embraced and integrated into new surroundings and community.

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.

    Now living in the middle of England, the rolling hills and stunning views surrounding her provide a constant source of inspiration. 

DHL Hewa cycling in Lancashire [photo by GD]

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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

 

Walking in Devon [photo by GD]

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.

Peacocks [photo by DHL Hewa]

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.

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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.

 

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Thank you very much, DHL, for such a detailed and insightful showcase. 

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In May, I will be showcasing 

another of the fabulous 20-20 Club writers: 

Tonia Trainer

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

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.