Lin De Laszlo
I am thrilled to introduce our tenth showcased writer of 2024, Lin De Laszlo. An alumni of the Open University Creative Writing Masters course and member of the 20-20 Club. Lin has a gift for writing stories and is particularly good at the slightly chilling ones suitable for Halloween...
Biography
Lin was born
and raised in Brockley, Southeast London, as the youngest of seven children. A
mother of three, she now lives near Dartford with her husband who is her
biggest emotional and techie support, her son, and her cat Olly who has several
personalities. She enjoys spending time gathered around the dinner table with
her family and friends. She credits her sense of humour and sarcastic wit to
the various jobs that she has had from general assistant (dogsbody), bus
conductor, bar person, till operator, domestic engineer and now post office
clerk.
She began
writing as a child but lacked support, and so it became more of a secret hobby.
If she could turn back time, Lin would retrieve her lost stories from the bin
and pay someone to decipher the handwriting, then unleash them on the world.
Lin’s
reading journey took off after receiving 1001 Arabian Tales as a child
and her inner bookworm was born. Despite the dramatic sighs of her husband, she
refuses to throw books away and is first port of call when books need a new
home for whatever reason.
Lin studied
English and drama as a mature student at Greenwich University and then some
years later completed her MA in creative writing with the Open University. She has
been a featured author in Makarelle, the online magazine, with a flash
fiction story called ‘The Obsession’. This piece was also featured on YouTube,
as an audio version read by Dini Armstrong which was a wonderful surprise. Three
pieces of Lin’s work also feature in Words From Wonderland, an anthology
published as part of MA alumni writing group, The Twenty-Twenty Club, on Amazon.
Lin is
currently working on her memoirs but cannot decide whether to self-publish for
the world to read or write them as a personal project. She sometimes attempts
to scare her children with stories from her past, but she is convinced that
they think she has made half of it up. Her favourite meal from childhood was egg
and chips which remains so today. Her 60th birthday which is looming
will be earmarked with this dish much to the eye rolling of her family.
She collects
Looney Tunes and Disney figurines, is a lifelong Barry Manilow fan, and refuses
to have a kindle because there is nothing better than the feel of a book. She
is the only person that she has come across, ever, who enjoys ironing. Lin also
has an unfathomable desire for a piano. She
says that unfortunately there is nowhere to put it unless it is suspended from
the ceiling.
One day she is
determined to have her ‘she shed’ in the garden where she can fill a glass and
write to her heart’s content.
Links:
‘The
Obsession’ read by Dini Armstrong can be found
on YouTube:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=asevetbwK-k
Words
from Wonderland can
be bought from Amazon at the following link:
[Cut and paste into search engine if links don't work]
******
Lin has sent us one full-length short story and two pieces of flash fiction. Enjoy!
The Dare
Stella stumbled into her compact and bijou kitchen, trying to clear the fog inside her head. Half-heartedly swearing off of anything alcoholic for at least a month, she leant on the sink trying to remember what last night had been all about. Filling a glass with water, she vaguely recalled that the evening had ended in a game of truth or dare that became so loud, the bloke upstairs was banging on the ceiling. She was embarrassed to tell a truth because nothing interesting ever happened to her and she wasn’t imaginative enough to lie. So dare it had to be.
Plonking down on the sofa, she had a memory of writing
something onto a Post it note, which could be anywhere by now. Surely Friday
nights should be earmarked for a takeaway, heart wrenching DVD and a box of
tissues.
In
the ‘Miss Stella forever single’ world anyway.
But no, easily led Stella ended up being coerced into having
a few people round. For fun.
There had been seven bodies resembling sardines in a can squeezed
into her front room. One was a friend of a friend, and another was someone she thought
she recognised from the toilets at work whose name possibly began with B, but Stella
couldn’t be sure.
I
mean when you’re desperate you don’t look at people. You’d lose concentration
surely!
Stella
had been left feeling a tad intimidated over the course of the evening from snarky
comments about her extensive ceramic cat collection and had chugged more
Chardonnay than was medically advised, hoping that alcohol might improve her
come backs. It only increased her burps which was mortifying.
‘Too gassy, obviously’, someone had criticised. Others
murmured agreement.
She had provided pistachios because they were classy nuts,
and crisps of a lesser known brand. The faded packet of a brand she was unsure
of should have been the clue that they were out of date, but they were on a buy
one get three offer which was a pretty good deal to be fair. Stella thought
that one cheese and onion crisp tasted pretty much the same as the next, and
she was never going to pay five pounds for a packet of Phileas ‘mostly air’
Fogg. Realistically, they were all the same crisps, just a different packet. She
had some pate in the fridge but that was on the edge, and it was too late to go
shopping now. A bit of cheese cut into squares, minus the hardened edges, and
some pickled onions and it could all pass off as canapes if you squinted
enough.
The
evening didn’t begin well.
The woman who was possibly from the loos had a nut allergy,
and they had each in turn voiced concern about the crisps. Stella had to admit
that they did taste a bit dodgy but didn’t dare admit that she’d bought knock
offs. The bowl now sat empty, so either someone hadn’t been as fussy as they
pretended to be, or they weren’t so bad after all.
The task in hand now was to find the incriminating Post it
note which would reveal her fate.
One hour and too many cups of coffee later, Stella had the small,
crumpled piece of paper in her hand.
RUN PAST BINS NAKED.
Her name was written underneath. The words ‘Bess’ and
‘witness’ were smudged by something. Bess, the named individual, could well be
the toileteer, but it served Stella right for trying to act invisible at work
and not mixing on dress down Fridays.
Her
conundrum was all because she couldn’t make up something vaguely believable.
Her mother was right!
‘No imagination Stella. You take after your father. You
could whistle into that man’s ear and feel the draught out the other side’.
Being a pragmatic soul, Stella thought out a realistic route
around the bins in her mind’s eye, but some distance between meant there would
be some time in full sight. She wasn’t known for her speed.
Decision: Console oneself for the rest of the weekend bingeing
on old reruns of ‘The Love Boat’ and a copious intake of snacks. Gin to accompany.
Note to self: Check sell by dates.
This was an emergency situation after all. If she was going
down, she might as well go down happy.
Part of her couldn’t believe that she was even contemplating
this.
The weekend dragged and the bin was testimony to the
severity of her lack of willpower.
Stella woke suddenly at three a.m. on Monday morning with an
idea.
Get
to work early.
Stalk the toilets.
Attempt to recognise said Bess from Friday night.
Devise a plan for the dare.
Hopefully,
Bess would be up for watching Stella in the early hours when the street was
more likely to be frequented by foxes than people. She could then execute said
dare, wave Bess adieu and go back to bed for a few hours before going to work.
Stella could hold her head high and dare done, her life could resume its normal
boring plod.
She would be able to look back in her old age and laugh and
laugh.
Spending far too much time stalking the toilets had her half
lying about a dicky belly to her line manager. To be fair she had consumed an
overload of comfort food over a two day period so her body was in a state of
panic after the assault.
Finally the
elusive Bess person wandered in brandishing a lipstick that was too expensive
to pronounce and was visibly shaken when Stella’s face suddenly appeared at the
mirror.
This was going to be awkward.
In true Stella style it took a good ten minutes to get to
the point.
It wasn’t that the other woman didn’t want to listen, but
the crisps were still giving her gip and she wasn’t really in the mood to chat.
Arms folded, Bess explained that she really didn’t need
reminding, and no, she wasn’t up for an early morning start. It was bad enough
that she would have to watch Stella cavort stark naked, in public, along with
the fact that she would be committing an offense and that she albeit now
soberly unwilling, would be aiding and abetting. She’d read somewhere that it was
a misdemeanour or something, she would have to google it again. Bess decided
that she was going to drink on her own in future and not go to strangers’
houses to eat grim crisps and get involved in antisocial behaviour.
Stella tried pushing the point that if there was an early
morning start, say between two to three a.m., that neither of them would have
to worry about getting caught.
Bess stated loudly that she wouldn’t get out of bed that
early for George Clooney let alone to watch a stupid dare they had made when
they were all plastered. After a strained silence accompanied by the sounds of
flushing, they agreed on 6.30 a.m., and to never speak of it again. Bess was
going to find different toilets as well.
Two a.m. on the morning of the dare had Stella trying to
quietly round up wheelie bins from the next road along, placing them close
together between her gate and the closest lamp post, which were two miles apart
according to her overactive imagination. She was sure that some busy body would
have something to say about where their bins had ended up, but that was the
least of her worries. Satisfied that they were lined up like sentries, she went
home to coffee and a slab of Battenberg.
Six thirty arrived and after what felt like the tenth time having
a wee, the doorbell rang. Stella, wearing only the flip flops she’d bought in
Spain, pumped up on coffee and nervous exhaustion, willed her gloriously naked
self out of her flat, watching as Bess scuttled to the other side of the street,
and attempted to blend in beneath the hanging branches of a tree.
The
morning air was inconsiderately freezing, and Stella had never felt gladder for
the lack of daylight. There was a very long moment when she wished she’d chanced
a forfeit, but it was too late now. The girls at work would be lurking like underfed
vultures on the Serengeti for the gossip and go viral on internal email. She
would probably start looking for a new job after this as she didn’t think that
she could handle the notoriety. She knew what to do. Finish this, go home, cry
in the bath, possibly wine, definitely a massive fry up. Sorted.
Or maybe sell everything and move to an uninhabited island
off the coast of Mars.
With thumbs up to Bess who was almost part of the tree at
this point, Stella made a dash for the first bin under the curious gaze of a smallish
fox who was busy with a discarded kebab.
So far so good.
By the time the third bin was making itself useful she was praying
it would be over soon and began planning the fry up, double everything.
Bin number four had been moved.
This was an emergency.
It now meant that there was definitely a chance to spot a naked
body loitering amongst the bins if you were unfortunate enough.
Stella considered cutting it short and going home. To hell
with the consequences and to hell with the Bess woman and her lipstick that
didn’t even match her skin tone. All this crouching would do her no favours if
anyone came up behind her. It wasn’t helping her knees either. Her hand was sweaty with the bunch of keys
that she was clinging onto for dear life, and the oversized orange Yeti ball
keyring that continuously banged against her thigh was asking to be ripped off and
buried. She was freezing, and she had lost all respect for naturists.
She
heard a cough and spun around.
The bloke from upstairs stood staring at her with a mixture
of disbelief and humour. This wasn’t good. The sound of footsteps beating a
retreat was the giveaway that Bloody Bess had gone AWOL.
The Yeti ball instantly gained purpose as a partial cover
for her nether regions. He tried to look everywhere but at her, which was handy
as Stella was a bit low on cover. A manner of thoughts ran riot in her brain. She
wondered in which circumstance her life would flash before her eyes.
‘Good morning Miss’.
With her anxiety levels smashing through the roof, Stella’s
tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and her face felt like a furnace.
‘Out for a run then?’
He waited.
She finally dislodged her tongue and muttered, ‘I live at
number five’.
‘Yeah and I live at five A. I think your ceiling has met the
sound of my boot. I’ve just finished work actually.’
‘Really?’ Another level of awkward.
‘Yeah. I’m the local not friendly bobby. Not allowed to wear
the uniform home. Sorry.’
Stella had read somewhere that they had to have a hat on to
arrest someone. And a badge. She said a
little prayer that he was really an hallucination due to her heightened anxiety
about the bin formation. She didn’t think it a good idea to ask though as she
was in enough trouble as it was and she wanted to cry.
‘Let’s go inside shall we Miss Marsh?’
‘You know my name?’
‘Did I skip the part that I’m your local friendly policeman?’.
He showed her a badge.
He really was, and she really was in trouble.
Mustering the last of her self-respect, she walked. head
held high, flip flops flopping, to her front door. Fumbling with the keys they
finally got in, where she silently vowed to curl up and hibernate for the next
twenty years. She had never been more glad to see her dressing gown.
He hadn’t slapped the handcuffs on yet so that was a good
sign wasn’t it?
Nursing her shame, she noticed that he was staring at her ceramic
cat collection and given how much of the wall it took up, would probably decide
that she should be locked up for that alone.
‘Creepy’, he muttered.
He made her a cup of tea because she was frozen which led
her to think he was actually going to be nice and that she was going to get
away with it, but then he turned all official, pulling a notebook out of his
pocket. He produced a pen, obviously nicked from somewhere like Argos, and kept
her under his gaze while he chewed the end thoughtfully.
The
change from nice guy to Jason Statham like broody man was beginning to have an
effect on her if she was honest, and Stella couldn’t deny that she was enjoying
it despite the circumstances of the moment. She was beginning to feel a warmth.
And it wasn’t her Calor gas heater.
Her antics would have to be reported. He was sorry but
didn’t seem to be. If another neighbour got wind that he’d turned a blind eye,
he would probably get a week on forensic clean-up for slacking. He could have a
word with the sarge for a lesser charge, but to be honest some magistrates didn’t
really take to streakers, and sabotaging bins was a public nuisance.
‘But then again perhaps you should’ve listened to my boot’
he said, snapping his notebook shut.
All Jason Statham comparisons went out the window.
‘You could give me a caution’, she offered.
‘I could’.
The air hung heavy between them and Stella was terrified
that anything she could say would be misconstrued as the very thing that must
not be named.
Bribery.
He sighed deeply. A bit too dramatically for Stella’s liking
but with any luck that might be a good thing.
‘I could …….. have a word with you about making sure you
keep your clothes on when you go creeping round the bins in future. Or……. not.’
Stella
pulled her dressing gown tighter and bit her lip.
‘I think this time is a onetime only’ he said head lowered
and whispering as if giving away state secrets, ‘and I hope never to deal with
you again after a fourteen hour shift’.
Nodding
her head in quick succession Stella mumbled her thanks somewhat incoherently.
‘You can thank me by keeping the noise down and being a bit
more grown up in future. Whyever you were showing blatant disregard for social order
I’ll never know’.
Stella
decided that he could have his over the top strict headmaster admonishing a
terrified five year old moment if it got her off of the shame of making a
statement at a police station.
After
more thank you’s than she thought she could say in five minutes later, she
closed the door to the world she never wanted to see again. And she hadn’t even
got his name.
Taking
the stairs two at a time to his flat, he only just made it through the door
before he collapsed with laughter.
He had got more of an eyeful than intended tonight but what
she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Being a bouncer sure taught you to handle
yourself. He was confident that there would be no more trouble from that one.
THE END
Maggie
Maggie loved Halloween. It was a special time for her.
Unexplained things happened around Maggie, then she was
moved on to another home. To avoid paperwork. There had been concerns.
Blond hair, blue eyes, she was like any other six year old. Distant
but polite. An old soul. Her social worker called her an odd sock.
The new foster mother gave Maggie a pitiful look as you
would an abandoned puppy and shoved her into a room littered with broken toys
and an old chest in the corner.
‘Choose something for tonight,’ she snapped. ‘You’re going
with the neighbour’s kids. Hurry up’.
Left alone in favour of daytime tv, Maggie dug into the
depths of the box discovering something that was just perfect.
The dress swamped her small frame. Musty and torn in several
places, it felt like cobwebs and smelt of age. Maggie caressed the material,
smiling broadly when she discovered a mouldy black hat, placing it on her head
and pulling it down over her curls.
This was fun.
Leaving the room she went in search of her carer. The
muffled sound of the TV travelled across the house.
A bucket of sweets sat by the front door. Halloween props lay
on the floor ready to decorate the hall. She stared at a reel of wire, eyes
glittering, watching it suddenly unravel and snake across the floor. She giggled
and looked at the figure in the doorway.
‘Look. I’m a witch’.
The fosterer stood frozen, confused, mouth working soundlessly.
The wire wrapped itself around her neck, dragging the
frantic woman towards the stairs as if guided by invisible hands. It
effortlessly hoisted her mid-air as if she were a feather as she clawed
uselessly at her neck, her face turning redder with each gasp for breath. Eyes
wide, mouth moving, she silently implored the girl to help her.
Silence.
The wire continued to wrap itself decoratively around the banisters.
Maggie was looking forward to trick or treat.
THE END
Halloween Revenge
From
‘I’m not wearing a stupid costume. What am I, five?’ to ‘Where’s my costume?’, the night before
Halloween.
Stella could take no more. She had hoped that the attitude
might have improved with age, but it was like living with a cactus. At least
when her daughter Phoebe was younger, Stella had been able to pull down the
blackout blinds, sing bedtime song as approved by supernanny, and shut the door.
This approach did not work on a fifteen year old.
A frantic rush around the shops found nothing suitable. Tempted
to suggest something along the lines of using a bed sheet and going as a ghost,
would definitely have earned her ‘Unloving, Unsympathetic, Uncaring, Cruel, Mother
of the Year Award’.
Four espressos later, to help her think, she had her
lightbulb moment.
One whining, uncooperative teenager and a twenty four pack
of toilet rolls later, sweet revenge was a pouting, outraged but passable
mummy. Perfect.
‘Seriously?’, Phoebe was horrified and close to tears.
‘Well I think it’s ok’. Stella gulped her wine.
Phoebe needed a serious lesson in gratitude.
‘It’s a dry night, you’ll be fine’.
Her daughter glared, obviously plotting some sort of revenge
for the future.
‘Come on, how many other mummies will there be?’
At the sound of the doorbell, Phoebe flounced out
dramatically. Stella could hear the snorting laughter of her friends who owned the
kind of parents who planned for nights like this. Phoebe was busy blaming her for
everything, past, present and future.
The door slammed and Stella sighed. Thank god her weather
app had promised a fine, dry, evening. What could possibly go wrong? She did a
lone applause on behalf of her unbelievable creativity.
Peace at last.
Funny. Was that the sound of rain?
THE END
And finally we come to The Big
Interview, in which Lin 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 was quite
young when I started writing very short stories. The reading world that I knew
didn’t look far past the Janet and John books in primary school and I thought
there must be better stories than catching a ball or going to the shops, so wondered
if there could be something different. The only reading material at home were
the Sunday papers which were forbidden to anyone except my parents, and there
were not many other books in the house. I didn’t have the sort of family who
would have supported anything that they considered trivial, so when I did
write, it was seen as something that was wasting time. There was also the
realisation that when I was told that, I would have to put the pen down. I was
about seven when I started writing short stories but I would chuck them away
because I thought they were no good.
I
did join a creative writing class in university which sort of reawakened my
storytelling and I had great fun with that. Shame that the class was for one semester only,
so my pen was put away again, so to speak.
Years later, I found myself scribbling/tapping away for my MA and
the rest, as they say, is history.
2. Tell us about the books and writers that have shaped your life
and your writing career.
One Christmas when I was about seven, I was gifted a book called 1001 tales of Arabian nights. It was full of stories of genies and flying carpets. The stories were so vivid and full of adventure that, for years, I believed that Baghdad marketplaces were full of flying carpets, spices and mysterious old men in turbans. That was the book that opened me up to reading. I became a bookworm after that, for sure. I remember my primary school library with a lot of fondness as it became a kind of a sanctuary once I found the joy of reading.
Not
related, but I was convinced that the giant octopuses and deep-sea creatures seen
on TV were true to size. Getting lost in the books that I read opened my mind
to all sorts of things. It is safe to say that I was easily influenced as a
youngster!
As
a teenager, I was obsessed with Stephen King and James Herbert. They had a big
impact on my reading material along with Dean R Koontz. My husband complains
that King can take three pages to describe a blade of grass, but I love the
imagery and the horror. I found Herbert very dark but compelling. Even today, I
read the ‘Rats’ trilogy over and over.
University
introduced me to some strong feminist writers whom I’d never heard of before
but loved. If you have never read the work of Ntozake Shange, you have been
denied language that is powerful and amazing. Likewise, I discovered Kafka,
Camus and Tolstoy, finding War and Peace much easier to read than I imagined.
Both
female and male writers have had an influence on my writing. I am inspired by the
talents of both and hope one day that I will have something up on a bookshelf squashed
between the greats.
3.
Have your children,
other family members, friends or teachers inspired any of your writing? In what
way?
I base some of my characters on people that I know. I confess to being a bit naughty by giving them the same names but then later I rethink it if the character is too close to their namesake. Sometimes I go back over the text to change the names, or hope that realization won’t kick in, so I won’t be taken to a room with a three-legged stool and a dripping tap to be questioned.
It
is never done with malice, but knowing some colourful characters can be
tempting and it is interesting to fictionalise and exaggerate a bit. I based
some of my characters for ‘The Boss Has Some Ideas’, which was published in Words
from Wonderland, on people who I know. I haven’t been approached by one of
them yet, so I am probably safe for now.
I
wrote a Halloween piece once about a stroppy teenager who demanded that her
mother supply a costume at the last minute. The result was a mummy costume made from
toilet rolls and the story resulted in the teenager being caught in a downpour.
The inspiration for the costume was from a game played at a party with my
children years before. I also watched my daughter to get some pointers on
teenage angst. The language of teenagers
can be astonishing and incomprehensible at times.
My
family is very supportive, and my husband is the appointed ghost reader. He can
get a little bit ‘knowledgeable’ about the writing process, so I have to grit my
teeth and smile sometimes. However, he is encouraging, sometimes leading to
intense conversations usually accompanied by wine.
My
tutors for the MA were brilliant and inspired me to push the boundaries of my
work, as did some of my peers in the group. I believe that they didn’t inspire
what she wrote but inspired her to write better.
4.
Does the place you
live have any impact on your writing?
I find it
difficult to write at home, usually because there is too much going on around mde.
I have tried to create a little writing hub in the spare room but, again, there
is always something to distract me.
When it is possible, I try to escape to Mousehole in Cornwall once or twice a year. It is a village and fishing port near Penzance. It is my happy place, and I’ve decided that I must have been Cornish in a previous life as it kind of envelopes me totally when I visit. I do some of my best work when I’m in a cottage, wind howling or completely quiet, kettle on, pasty in the oven, laptop open and chocolate nearby. The pace of life and the very air is so different in Mousehole. There is a clash in nature as it can be calm one day and then the sea is almost merciless the next. It almost feels like two different places. The best time is when the wind is up, and the sea is crashing about on the rocks and the harbour wall. When nature is thrashing about, it can do amazing things for the imagination.
5.
How would you
describe your own writing?
I feel that I
don’t have a specific style. Ideas or stories play in my head quite a lot which
are sometimes hard to remember unless I jot them down. Once the keyboard or pen
is to hand, words, ideas or memories pop into my head and I take it from there.
I’m
aware that I tend to be uncertain about a lot of my work, simply hoping that
others might like it rather than having confidence that it is good. Rather than
looking at this as a negative thing, I feel that it pushes me to strive to get
better in my work. The only downside to this is that it takes a little longer
than I would like to put out a piece of writing because of the changes that I
make.
I
enjoy writing about many different topics, so I find it hard to think of myself
other than as a fiction writer. I don’t really like to be labelled, to be
honest. I’m just comfortable writing anything. It’s a mood thing for me.
6. Are there certain themes that draw you to them when you are
writing?
I
believe I’m an all-rounder with themes popping up to suit the story. I do,
however, get excited when getting my teeth into horror. If I went into writing
full-time, I imagine that would be the path that I would follow.
I
find the fairy and magical theme enthralling and love the genre. I admire the creative
ability that goes into everything about it but feel that it isn’t something
that I could do with ease. I have tried but I believe that it is on another
level entirely.
Comedy
and struggles of life are themes that I am most comfortable with.
Competitions
frustrate her as an invisible writer’s block kicks in if I have to stick to a
strict theme.
I
have a huge whiteboard in my office that is my godsend. It is full of ideas and
quotations to help me along if I need a prompt or if I can’t think of anything.
It is forbidden for anyone but me to rub anything off of it.
7.
Tell us about how you approach your writing. Are
you a planner or a pantser?
I am not a
planner and I tend to leave things until the last minute, which I find
stressful. The voices in my head justify it by saying that there is planning happening
somewhere in my brain, but there’s a bit of clock watching when I get going. I’m
certain that other writers will sympathise with this.
The
wake-up call for planning really hit me on my final piece for the MA. The
submission was an extract from a proposed three-part memoir, but names had to
be changed in case of public or private publication. Fearing that, if that happened,
I’d be dragged onto Loose Women to explain myself, and not realising how
much planning goes into a story of that type, it took me longer than intended
to get it right. Considering it was only
an extract, it made me realise how much time a completed version would take out
of my life.
This experience taught me to strive to learn to plan out my stories from beginning to end. Famous last words! Some of my work, I feel on reflection, has been ambiguous, sounding great in my head, but leaving the reader wondering what the conclusion is. From believing in my own voice on paper, I’ve had to step back and see it as a reader. I now understand that – even though it can be a hard pill to swallow - if there’s a lack of thought and planning, the work does not always resonate as the writer wishes.
8.
Do you have any
advice for someone who might be thinking about starting to write creatively?
Some will
love what is written, others won’t. Don’t put off writing because of the
doubters. Remember it is your voice and you should believe in it. Never be
cruel. Experiment and have fun. Enjoy the compliments and never be afraid of
rejection in whatever shape it comes in or however many there may be.
9. Are you, or have you been in the past, a member of any writing
groups, online or face-to-face?
I
am currently a member of the fantastic Twenty-Twenty group, which I really
enjoy.
I joined a group called London Writers Cafe while doing my MA. The
group would meet at various pub function rooms in London to discuss plot
developments, do read-throughs of story drafts and sit in on discussions with
various authors. However, as the group were well-established, I felt that I
wasn’t able to contribute as much as I had hoped.
I signed up for a Zoom-based course led by an MA tutor from Goldsmiths
in London; it was called ‘London and Literature’. This course covered the Romantics,
Victorians and Edwardians. The tutor referred to a wide range of literature
which brought poetry and prose fiction to life. It culminated in a tour of
Charles Dickens’ footsteps including a trip to The Cheddar Cheese pub in Fleet
Street, which feels like a time-warp.
I found the course stimulating and it brought together so many
things that I found fascinating, from culture to how language was used back in
the day, to what inspired writers of the time, not least poverty and obsession
with death. I found a wealth of information and the course served to give a
human face to the writers of the time.
The value of these groups
depends on how much the individual is willing to take from them.
I didn’t particularly get much from the writer’s café because it was
overwhelming. That wasn’t the intention of the group, but it was early in my
writing career and I didn’t yet fully recognize myself as a writer.
The value of The Twenty-Twenty Club is that it comprises only
twenty members who are all on an equal footing. It has given me the chance to
be published and keeps the members, all MA course alumni, relevant to each
other. We have a common interest and it gives everyone the chance to share the blood,
sweat and tears of a shared craft. The group give each other support and encouragement,
and the value of that is important to me, and, I believe, to the others as
well.
10.
What do you think
about getting feedback on your work from other writers and/or non-writers?
I am happy to
receive feedback. I feel that it serves to point out obvious typos or mistakes
or encourages me to carry on when the feedback is positive.
There
have been times when feedback has given the impression that the piece is not
liked at all. This is never rudely done but occasionally I’ve had barely
lukewarm feedback and I do get a bit pouty then. I guess that is my writer’s ego raising its
head. I have come across the statement ‘I don’t usually like this genre’. This
isn’t a problem as I would rather someone be honest. So long as they don’t completely
annihilate the work; they’re entitled to an opinion.
On
the other hand, it can be healthy to get out of a comfort zone when giving
feedback on a style that you wouldn’t usually read. Who knows? It might turn
out to be enjoyable. Anyway, saying they
‘don’t usually like this genre’ implies that on this occasion they have enjoyed
the piece, so I suppose it is a positive comment really.
To
validate my point, I remember that I didn’t really like Edgar Allan Poe until I
bought the completed works, because I thought it would look good on my coffee
table!
Acting
upon suggestions really depends on whether I am feeling possessive about a
story that I have submitted. I appreciate that other people have taken time out
to read her work but, grammar aside, if the changes are too much, then I trust my
own instincts.
11.
If you have
experience of self-publishing, what have been its challenges and rewards?
I have no
experience of self-publishing my work in a stand-alone capacity so cannot comment,
but it is something that I would most certainly aim for in the future. I think
that one of the challenges would be to have the relevant and correct information
regarding the process in my head and the relevant material to hand before I
even started, as I am aware that it is very involved.
Once
done. I would make sure that, before publication, signed copies would find their
way to friends and family, then they could sell them on eBay when I become famous!
I would say to anyone, go for it. Get writing. Find a publisher you feel happy with, and get that book into print. Life’s too short for regrets.
12.
Where do you get
your ideas from?
My ideas come
out of the blue or sometimes I might think, ‘Oh, I could get a story out of
that’. The problem is remembering ideas or having something to hand to jot them
down.
Ideas
can come from something that might be said or a snip of a memory that
resurfaces for no apparent reason. Once the basic plot is there, ideas can
sometimes crowd in or not. I don’t need to know exactly what is going to happen,
but I am confident that the crowd in my head will start to shape things as they
go along.
I
can be writing and halfway through there will be a shift in a different
direction, or if I become distracted I will take some time away to look at the
alternatives. It is all swings and roundabouts really but even when I have finished fleshing out an idea, I am rarely
satisfied.
13. They say that successful writers need to be selfish. How far do
you agree with this?
I
have never considered writing to be selfish, but this is an
interesting viewpoint. When I was doing my MA, my children would complain about
how much time I was spending on it which made me feel guilty at times. I was unemployed
at the time and battled to keep to a 9-3-time schedule, but it was easy to get
carried away. I feel mortified that they could have thought that I was being
selfish.
I
don’t believe it’s selfish to have a purpose. The hardest thing sometimes is to
find balance. When finding the balance involves family, I’ve been very lucky in
that they understand that just because I write, it does not mean that I am
abandoning them. The compromise is quality over quantity in time with them and my
own time in which I write.
Sometimes
it’s hard to say no to other people when there is a deadline or the writing
juices are flowing and everything is intense. Not everybody can understand what
drives a person to write, and that we don’t have set hours where we can just shut
up shop and have a regular life.
I wouldn’t say that I am disciplined as such. AsI said before, I’m a spur-of-the-moment kind of
writer who leaves things to the last minute. I work part-time now, but it isn’t
work that keeps me from the laptop. It is my annoying friend, procrastination.
I don’t write every day but when I do write, it’s usually full-on
for a few hours - or more if I get really excited about what is going onto the
page.
14.
Beyond your family
and your writing, what other things do you do?
I work for
the Post Office in WHSmith’s which goes a long way to keeping me fit. It also means
that I can do a bit of people-watching and get some good ideas for some
characters. I have recently had a knee replacement, so work has taken a back
seat for a bit.
I have a tendency to drink chai lattes far too much, and I’m currently developing a grading system as to where the best one is made. The choice is not easy, can work out very expensive, and is adding to my waistline. Could that be classed as a hobby? Not too sure, but it is a definite interest or excess depending on your point of view.
I love Scrabble and Wordle. Karaoke is a passion that I wish I could indulge more, though there are varying opinions as to whether I can actually sing! I can’t read music, probably due to the abject fear of my music teacher from school, but I am pining for a piano which I have promised to learn to play. Short of hanging it from the ceiling, there’s no room for such a thing at the moment.
My
major passion is ironing. Yes, you have read that right! I haven’t found anyone
who understands this yet but I am constantly promised bags of clothes to iron by
friends who hate doing it. L My reasoning is that it is therapeutic, and I love
nothing more than putting on my headphones, setting up the iron and singing
along with my Spotify playlist.
15. Would you describe yourself as a ‘cultured’ person?
I love to visit the theatre and galleries but but don’t get to go as much as I would like. I remember that I was almost removed from the Van Gogh exhibition in Amsterdam because the security guard caught me taking a photo of ‘Sunflowers’.
I
was not overly impressed at the Saatchi gallery exhibition which featured a burnt-out
mattress on its own in an empty room which reminded me of the council estate
where I was raised. The difference was that the exhibition mattress gave off a very
dark vibe, unlike my childhood memory mattress which we would use as a
trampoline.
I don’t watch much terrestrial TV
as in soaps etc, as I’m more of a streamer. To be exact, my husband is, because
technology and I are not happy bedfellows. I am a fan of the more modern Star
Trek series. However, although I was a Trekkie in my younger days, I
do not watch the old ones much anymore, having been spoilt by the gloss of
modern productions.
I love romcoms and American
disaster movies.
I
believe that it is important that writers stay in touch with stuff right across
the board, not just the contemporary. History must bring some form of influence
into the contemporary because of the connection through the ages. Over the
years, language has changed significantly, and continues to do so, and the
meaning of words shifts and can cause problems with communication in any
form.
Nevertheless, it is important
that we retain the ability and the willingness to embrace new stuff, not
immediately write it off as irrelevant. Writing is an art, no matter what shape
or form it takes. Never forget history but keep up with the new world.
I like to read literary novels
and find them very helpful, particularly due to my fascination with the
Victorian era. I am building up my own Charles Dickens collection which means
that I always know what I will get from my son at Christmas!
I am not the bookworm of the past any more as finding the time these days is a bit difficult. Most of what I have written are literary pieces, but I don’t see that any one piece is more literary than the other. I would argue that they are probably classed as literary fiction.
16. How did the Covid pandemic affect you as a writer?
I did not
find the inconvenience of staying indoors too daunting. Although I couldn’t
really go out, it gave me a good excuse to get on with writing. I did contract
Covid which made me very unwell, but I know that I was much better off than
some. I did not feel isolated as it seemed that everyone was in the same boat. I remember that the only thing to suffer was my
mental health from standing in the queues outside of Sainsburys. I would
silently rant at the lack of pace but my love of people watching was always
satisfied.
Being
a writer is essentially solitary. I cannot think of a single writer who can do
their thing when they are surrounded by crowding, human or otherwise. So, out
of the whole population, I believe that writers benefitted from the pandemic
the most. And no explanations for the need for solitude were needed.
17. 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?
You can’t expect everyone to be on the same page, because if they were, life would be immensely boring. Therefore, bearing in mind that this will divide opinion, I believe that there are groups taking the sensitive issue too far. They seem to live in a bubble and refuse to accept the world as it is. It has gone beyond a joke within literature with groups demanding that we nitpick over every word and phrase in case they are offended by its content. They seem to believe that it refers to them only and will not accept that other groups are okay with page content. However, writers should be mindful of offense. A writer cannot put pen to paper and expect it to be accepted just like that, but it seems that a majority of writing is questioned for its content these days.
I feel that it is wrong that past writers are held hostage for
something written in a time when what they wrote was entirely acceptable. Times
have changed and we should move on with them, but if most of the day was spent rewriting
because of fear of offense, then we would lose so much that is relevant here
and now. So many great works of literature are damned because they are suddenly
offensive to a group that suddenly feels victimised for no apparent reason
other than that they seem to want society to pander to them. There have been
calls to cancel or rewrite classics which I feel is abominable. Read the
synopsis and if it isn’t your kind of book, don’t open the cover. Simple. If a
subject matter is appropriate to the story, then it should be allowed.
Writing about culture and the people who live by those norms should
be done with understanding and research, and the writer must be aware of
unconscious bias. Taking on the persona of another culture when creating a
character isn’t wrong, but it should be done with sensitivity and knowledge. There
must be a clear understanding of the subject matter to make it real. To make a
character acceptable, there must be something relevant and relatable about them.
Simply assuming the history and struggles of another race or culture is not
enough to create a believable and entertaining character. I believe that adopting
personas from other cultures should be acceptable practice for modern writers, if
it is done well, but we have all seen the damage caused from both sides. It is
wise to remember that, sadly, the power of groups who believe they are being
ignored or misrepresented often seems to have become so strong these days that
it makes publishers reluctant to ignore it for fear of not selling enough books
to make a profit, or gaining a reputation as condoning supposedly ‘offensive’ work.
18.
Where would you
place your own writing, on a continuum with PURE FANTASY at one end and
COMPLETE REALISM at the other?
All writing
is a kind of fantasy.
I see fantasy
is transportation to a different world which is new to the reader, relying on
imaginative engagement. But so is ‘realism’. Both are magical and exciting and anything
is acceptable while the book is open, or the kindle is plugged in. A reader
could be anybody, but then they open a page and suddenly find themselves riding
dragons or shooting at a spy.
The
written word is so exciting with so much to give. I am sometimes called a
dreamer but I truly believe that fantasy and realism have roots in each other.
I
base my characters on real people with hopes and dreams of their own. Sometimes
I will let my thoughts go dark, but the characters remain human. What goes on
in their minds, however, is often a surprise to me. Nevertheless, they are
relatable.
Fantasy,
in whichever form, is inspiring and has tremendous value to both children and
adults. My children did not have much interest in reading until introduced to The
Magic Faraway Tree and The Phantom Tollbooth. I advocate both books because
they taught my children that reading can be exciting and cool.
I
wish that I had the confidence to write the fairytale genre, as I love the
imagery and the imagination that goes into it. The world of literature is
richer for it.
******
Olly, the feline lunatic [in a quiet moment]
Thank you very much, Lin, for such an interesting and informative showcase.
******
In September, I will be showcasing
another fabulous writer:
Wendy Heydorn
Not to be missed!
******
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
You can find all these showcases by scrolling back through the material on this blog.
