March's Writer Showcase No 1 : Dr TREFOR STOCKWELL

Dr Trefor Stockwell

I am very pleased to introduce our fourth showcased writer of 2025, Dr Trefor Stockwell. Trefor is currently collaborating with Gae Stenson to produce a book of illustrated short stories [Trefor is showcased alongside Gae this month].

Trefor Stockwell

Biography

Trefor is of an age when he should know better, but probably doesn’t. His career has been quite varied, being at times a soldier, civil servant, actor, mature student, tutor and writer. He calls Wales his home, but has lived and worked in a variety of foreign locations: Libya, Oman, Northern Ireland, Bulgaria, Romania and Russia. Ha has also lived and worked in various locations in mainland Britain: Yorkshire, Dorset, Cornwall, Stratford-upon-Avon and London. He now resides permanently in a small village on Ynys Mon with his wife and, apart from the occasional visit to their apartment in Moscow, rarely leaves the island.

Trefor has written one novel, Clerical Errors, Secular Lies, based loosely on actual events, but now out of print. However, he is considering a revamp, but revised and with a new title. He is also working on two other novels.

His first short story collection, which is at the core of his PhD Thesis, Magical Realism: Master or Servant? has since been published as a collection in its own right entitled Bread and Wine. His new collection, The Bureau of Lost Things, illustrated by Gaynor Stenson is due to be published later this year. The stories were written during the writer’s visits to Russia and are partly anecdotal, inspired by the characters met and incidents experienced there. He is planning on approaching a Russian publishing company with a view to marketing a translated version in the Russian language there.

Trefor has published two collections of poetry: Life, Love, Politics and Other Silliness and Taking Back Control, and Other Nonsense. He also has had work featured in various anthologies, the most recent being, Coed, a collection supporting the campaign to save Penrhos Nature Reserve.

When Trefor isn’t working at his laptop, he reads, walks and befriends any dog he meets; he loves dogs enough never to own one, not being in a position to care for it properly, preferring instead to carry a pocket full of dog chews with which to bribe the creatures. It is a situation which pleases him and the dogs.

Links

  

******

Trefor has sent us a story and several poems as a sample of his work. Enjoy! 

 Sergei and the Angel of Death

 

Professor Sergei Vitaly Kuznetzov was convinced that he was safe from harm and would not die unexpectedly simply because, as he had pointed out recently to his slightly bemused cousin, Marusja, after she had warned about the dangers of being overweight, God would not allow him to die until his work was completed. It came then as a complete surprise to him when, late one evening in early September, following a persistent hammering on the knocker, he angrily opened the door of his apartment to reveal the imposing figure of the angel of death. 

Despite the fact that the figure was over seven feet tall dressed entirely in black and had a beard that stretched down to his knees, Sergei did not immediately recognise him as the angel of death. Instead he mistook him for yet another of the itinerant salesmen who were fast becoming a nuisance in the district, and addressed him angrily:

            ‘Whatever it is you’re selling, I do not need it, want it or desire it. What is more, have you any idea what time of night this is?’ The figure leaned down until his mouth was inches away from Sergei’s face, and breathed a huge sigh before replying:

            ‘Yes, Professor, I know what time it is’. The figure breathed another sigh before continuing – Sergei felt repelled by the noxious fumes, which smelled vaguely of earth, disease and rotting things. ‘It is your time. It is your time to leave, Sergei.’

            ‘My “time”? What are you talking about? And who are you, coming here at this time of night, disturbing me? Have you any idea who I am? I’ve a good mind to report this to the Academy of Sciences. What have you got to say to that?’

            The figure smiled, and heaved another sigh before answering:

            ‘I have nothing to say to that, Professor, and your protestations change nothing. It is your time, and I have come to collect you. I have the necessary paperwork here if you’d care to check.’

‘Time? Collect? What on earth are you talking about? And who in God’s name are you, anyway?’

‘It matters not who I am, professor, but you are correct in one thing: I do come in God’s name.’ Sergei was now even more enraged, because if there was one thing he disliked more than being disturbed late at night, it was someone blaspheming in front of him.

‘How dare you come into my house and blaspheme? I would like you to leave immediately please. If you refuse I shall phone the police and have you forcibly ejected.’ So saying, he opened the door and pointed the way out.

The figure smiled, raised one eyebrow, then reaching out, and gently closed the door.

‘We need to talk, Professor, but be assured, before this night is through you will be coming with me. There can be no argument: you have been called, it is your time and I am here to take you. What is more, I take you in God’s name.’ Sergei had a sudden moment of revelation, turned pale and began to tremble.

 ‘I think I need to sit down. Are you who I think you are? Are you – are you really - ?’ Here Sergei broke off, unable to complete the question. The figure gently placed his hand on the tearful Sergei’s shoulder before answering:

‘Yes, Sergei, I am who you think I am. Now do you understand?’

‘Well, yes, but there must be some mistake: I’m not ready to go, my work here is unfinished. It is most important and only I can complete it. Surely there is some kind of appeal system? God would not allow this.’

‘Sergei, Sergei, who do you think ordered this? Who do you think signed this collection docket? Here, read it if you don’t believe me.’ The figure stretched out his hand and offered Sergei a rolled parchment. ‘Read it, Sergei, look at the signature.’ Sergei waved the document away, put his head in his hands and allowed the tears to flow. The figure waited patiently until Sergei had recovered his composure sufficiently to allow him to speak:

‘If I go with you, answer me this: is heaven as it is described? Is it a paradise?’

‘It is, Sergei, and more besides, but there is no guarantee that is where you will go: there are questions to be asked first. Only the most deserving go straight there, the majority have to atone for a misspent life.’

‘Well, I won’t have any worry on the score: I have led a blameless life: I am without sin.’

‘Are you sure, Sergei? Are you that certain?

‘Of course I’m certain: I don’t steal, I don’t cheat, I don’t kill. I go to church every Sunday, and I contribute to the offertory box – always notes, never coins. Blameless, I tell you.’

‘Sergei, all that means nothing. You’re not judged by what earthly sins you have committed, or on how often you attend church. When God gave humanity the gift of free will he knew full well that it would be misused. It would therefore be very unfair for to him to judge on indulgence of weaknesses that are inbuilt into the human psyche, would it not? No, you should concern yourself with things you have not done rather than on the things you have. You should also look very closely at your reasons for acting in the way that you do.’

‘What do you mean? I lead my life simply to please God: I am guided by him in all things.’

         ‘Sergei, look into your own heart for the truth of this. You may convince yourself of your own self-deceptions, but please don’t expect us to be fooled: we know exactly why you “lead your life” the way you do, so please don’t insult our intelligence by trying to convince us otherwise.’ Here, Sergei angrily tried to interrupt, but the figure silenced him with stern look that invited no argument, before continuing: ‘We know you go to Church each Sunday. You go not out of piety, but because you are concerned what your neighbours might think if you did not. We also know that, when you put your notes in the Offertory Box, you do so, not out of any feeling of benevolence, but because it makes you look good. Moreover, you always ensure that your note exceeds the value of your immediate neighbour; again, not for altruistic reasons, but simply to make your fellow worshiper feel inadequate.’ Sergei was unsure how to answer this tirade of abuse, for he was beginning to see a grain of truth in it, and felt uncertain how to answer the charges. Finally, he made up his mind and began to speak again:

        ‘If what you say is true, and I’m not saying that it is, but if it is true, then surely I must deserve credit for doing the right thing even if it is for the wrong reasons. It must make me a better person than someone who sins, who doesn’t go to Church or who doesn’t put money in the Offertory Box. Is that not the case?’

        ‘No, Sergei, it most definitely is not “the case”. You have much to answer for, my friend, and not much credit in your favour. Ask yourself this question: when was the last time you helped a stranger, offered assistance to a friend or relative in need, or supported someone morally? Don’t bother answering, Sergei, because the answer is never, not once in your whole life. Instead, you accepted kindnesses without ever offering thanks or reciprocating in any way. You have shown no love or empathy for your fellow man. You, in short, Sergei, are one of life’s users, and, my friend, you are in big trouble, with less chance of passing the tests that lie before than some of the out and out scoundrels that I know.’

        ‘What? Are you saying some bandit, some thief, some rascal, is a better person than I? How can that be? How is that fair, or just?’

        ‘Yes, Sergei, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. Let me give you an example, I won’t tell you his name, because we have strict rules on confidentiality, but suffice it to say that this man stands as an example to us all – I shall refer to him simply as Igor.

        ‘Up until he died, Igor lived a life totally devoid of goodness: he lied, he cheated, he stole and was work-shy. He never once attended Church, apart from once to steal money from the Offertory Box. Now, Sergei, judged by your standards this man would have no chance of entering the Kingdom of Heaven, But he did, and all because of one incident which was enough to expunge all supposed sins, an incident of pure altruistic goodness. Would you like to know what he did, Sergei? Of course you would, I can see it in your eyes. 

        'Well, it happened like this: on this particular day, Igor was running away from the police – this was a frequent occurrence with him, you understand. Anyway, in his attempt to evade capture, he ran down into a Metro station and was weaving his way through the crowd when he spotted a child. The child had dropped its toy, and in reaching to catch it had fallen in front of a fast approaching train. Igor reacted immediately: jumped down onto the track, snatched the child up and had time enough to throw it clear into its mother’s arm before being hit by the train – his death was  instantaneous. He did this, Sergei, not because he wanted people to think him a hero, though many did, and not because he wanted his fellow travellers, who had not attempted to save the child, to feel bad, but because it was not in his nature to do otherwise. In that split second he empathised with the child, sacrificed his own life and in doing so wiped all real or supposed sin. Now do you understand Sergei?’

Sergei thought for a moment, but could not come to terms with the figure’s reasoning. It appeared impossible to him that this criminal, this low life, this unchristian man, could be accepted while he, the most pious of men – in his eyes – would have to be questioned. He turned to his interrogator and resumed his indignant argument:

‘This is ridiculous. Are you telling me that this man is forgiven even though he did not repent? Perhaps you would like me to throw myself under a Metro train, sacrifice myself and all my work?’

‘No, Sergei, I don’t, and I doubt you have it in you, anyway. In a similar situation, you would expect others to do it; you’d probably be too busy, or afraid of being late for Church. No, Sergei, his was an extreme case. Most people manage by a number of kind acts to build up credit over time. Moreover, many do so without ever having set foot inside a Church.’

‘What? You’ll be telling me that atheists and agnostics have more chance than me next! This is madness. How can these people be accepted if they never go to Church or worship?’ At this point, the figure began to laugh, a cackling sound that hurt Sergei’s ears and sent shivers of fear through him.

‘Oh Sergei! Your naivety astounds me. What you need to be aware of, my friend, is that the established Church has very little to do with God. Ah! I see that surprises you, but it happens to be true: the established Church was invented by man, and panders to man’s needs, not God’s. You talk to me of atheists and agnostics as though they commit the most grievous of sins, but you’re wrong, for many are the nicest and kindest people you could wish to meet. When they commit a kind act, it’s not out of some misguided sense of religious fervour, but simply because they have an innate sense of compassion. In fact, when they come, they supply us with much amusement: the look on their faces when they realise that their disbelief has been a mistake is quite something to behold. God loves them, though, and once he has stopped laughing, they rarely have many questions to answer. You could learn a lot from watching how they lead their lives; watch your little cousin, Marusja.’

‘My cousin? She is a dreadful woman, and completely lacking in respect. She understands nothing about me or my work.’

‘She understands more than you give her credit for, Sergei. She does much for you: cooking, cleaning, sewing, running errands, the list is endless. Why do you think she does that, Sergei? She receives nothing in return, not even a thank you. So why does she do it, do you think?’

‘It’s her duty as a relative, and she knows how important my work is; she doesn’t understand it, but she does know it’s important.’

‘She knows it’s important to you, Sergei, and she understands much more than you think, but that has nothing to do with it. She does these things not because it’s her “duty” but because she feels sorry for you: she, an atheist, sees you with no friends, no interests outside the narrow scope of your researches, enslaved by your fanatical support for the Church and pities you; yes, Sergei, your little cousin puts up with you arrogance purely out of pity.’

‘If, as you say, she pities me – and I can’t imagine why she would – then why does she continually mock me, make fun of my beliefs? Answer me that.’

‘Because, Sergei, you amuse her, and because the alternative would be to get angry, storm out of your life and leave you to your own devices. She is far too caring a person to do that, so instead she chooses to laugh at your ridiculous sense of self esteem.’

‘”Ridiculous?” How can that be? My work is world renowned, I am respected in my field and my students adore me.’

‘Sergei, there was a time when your work was approved, but that was long ago: it has now been superseded by others. Yes, you still have respect, but only for what you did, not for what you are doing, and I’m sorry to tell you this, Sergei, but your students either fear you, or mock you -  occasionally both. So for you, my friend, your time here on earth is over and you must now come with me and face God’s justice.’ 

Sergei grew pale, because he knew now that the figure could not be argued with, knew in his heart that all that had been said was true and, for the first time, he felt ashamed of the way he had lived that life.

‘What if I refuse to come? What if I wish to stay, to undo a little of all I have done? Please, spirit, let me stay a while and try.’ So saying, Sergei sank to his knees and clasped tight to the sink stem. The figure made no reply, but reached out and took him firmly by the hand.

‘Come, Sergei, it is your time, it is useless to refuse.’ With this, the figure started to pull and Sergei screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

 

When Sergei awoke the following morning, he was surprised to find that he had fallen asleep with his arms wrapped round the sink stem. He was puzzled at first as to how he came to be in such a position – he rarely went near his sink, relying instead on his cousin’s twice weekly visits to clear away the week’s detritus – slowly, though, his memory of the night’s events came back to him and he began to laugh, quietly at first, but, as he prodded various parts of his body, just to ensure that he was still in human form, he began to realise that it had all been a dream, and his laughter became louder until he was beside himself with the joy of relief. Eventually, he calmed down enough to raise himself from the floor, and - accompanied by the occasional chuckle - began to tidy: Marusja was due to visit the following day, and he was going to surprise her with a clean flat and an invitation for dinner at the local restaurant. He imagined the look of absolute amazement on her face when confronted with this small miracle, and once more burst into laughter.

******

When The Darkness Came

 

When the darkness finally came

As we always knew it would

Most blamed greed

That need for bigger, better, faster

That need for profit

That need to balance the books

 

Too late we began to realise

That not everything has a price

Some things would not show on any balance sheet

These were the most important things.

 

There were those that warned us

But they were laughed at, ridiculed

Labelled 'tree huggers' or 'left wing loonies'

'A danger to business'.

 

When the waters began to rise

Storms and hurricanes wrecked crops

And the ice caps began to melt

We were told 'not to worry'

It was just 'coincidence'.

 

Still we did nothing

Bad for business

Believed the rumours of 'fake news'

And slowly it happened.

 

So when the darkness came

We were not surprised

But we could not really blame

Greed or profit or business

The real culprit was

Our own apathy.

******

Windrush

 

'Come.' They said

Our former masters

'Come, help us rebuild the New Jerusalem'

Not wishing to offend our 'Mother country'

We went

How could we not

We were, so they told us, British.

 

Smoothing our hair with Brylcream

Dressed in our Sunday-best-going-to-church-christenings and weddings- ill-fitting suits

With our mock-leather highly-polished shoes pinching our toes

And our few belongings packed in our economy valises

We left our poverty

And sailed on the ship

To Tilbury.

We were free men

We were British.

 

When we finally arrived

To the grey-unwelcoming-wetness of our adopted land

There were no bands to greet us

Just stern faced officials

Unsmiling

Handing us travel warrants

To cities we had only heard of

Still, we were stoic

We had a new start

We had hope

We were British.

 

Our smiles of greeting were not returned

People found us strange

Different

Most were afraid to meet our gaze

Some showed open hatred, which we did not understand

Called us:

'Coons'

'Coconuts'

'Niggers'

'Black Bastards'.

 

Some made a conscious effort to make contact

But they did not know what to say

And the attempts were false

Condescending

An embarrassment to both

The relationship between ex-master and ex-slave

Is a difficult one to reconnoitre

Even though we all were British.

 

We were puzzled by the notices in the boarding house windows

'No Irish'

'No Dogs'

'No Blacks'

Why Us?

We thought

Don't they know

We are British?

 

They said we would all leave after the first Winter

Not used to the harsh cold season

They were wrong

We stayed

Had families

Worked

Paid taxes

Contributed

We were British.

 

Can't mean us, we thought

When the speech was made

What have we to do with

'Rivers of blood'?

Were we really

'Piccaninnies'?

We knew enough of whips

To know we would never want

The 'whip hand'

Surely this could not be us

We were British.

 

Our families grew, thrived

Became Doctors

Nurses

Lawyers

Policemen

Became part of the national fabric

Made us proud

We were British.

 

Then came the 'New Immigration Act'

We thought nothing of it

Trusted our leaders to know best

Asked no questions

Why should we?

We were safe

We were British.

 

Time passed

And the phrase 'hostile environment'

entered into the lexicon

Still we did not question

They knew what they were doing

We had nothing to fear

We lived in a civilised land

We were secure

We were British.

 

Then the rumours started

Friends of a friend had been arrested

It was strange

But we argued 'they must have done something'

The police don't arrest with no evidence

Couldn't possibly happen to us

After all

We were British.

 

The rumours persisted

Silly we thought

How could you not prove you were British?

Just mischief making

False news

Nothing to do with us

We've been here for years

We are British.

 

But then came the knock on the door

Two in morning it was

We were arrested

Taken to the airport

Told to 'go home'

We said 'this is our home'

We are British

 

But they did not listen

Ignored our pleas

Our bewilderment

Our tears

Told us

'You are not welcome'

'Aliens'

You are not British

 

So here we are

Strangers in a strange land

Friendless

Homeless

Destitute

Wondering how this could happen

When we were British?

We were, weren't we?

 

 

 ******

Godrevy Sands

You always felt the pull of the sea

The water drew you to it.

In childhood, before the darkness descended,

You would run barefoot in sibling joy

Towards the waves,

Always towards the waves.

 

Later, divorced from the coast

The blackness came.

Was that a symptom?

Were you yearning for the sands beneath your feet?

Or were you Stifled

Choked by the demands

Of the arty-fart-literati

That was the Bloomsbury Diaspora?

Were you really part of that?

Or were you still longing for ‘a room of one’s own’?

Was it this that drove you to it?

That made you finally choose the Ouse’s muddy embrace.

Was it madness, or a moment of total clarity?

Whatever it was you left us with your words

Torrents of them

A great stream of disconnected thought

That left us, amazed, astounded

And, yes, at times perplexed.

******

 The stoat

Walking in the forest in early Spring

My mind wandering in easy thought

I was distracted by a flash of white

Balletic in its movement

A living breathing Tincture to delight the eye and sooth the soul

It paused to sniff the air

Then sensing the sometime wickedness of man

It scampered off, a delightful memory for future dark days.

 

It saddens me now to think

That such God-given beauty

Will one day be sacrificed

To adorn some crown

Some Chapeau

Some canopy royal

Such is the selfish arrogant vanity of my species.

[First published in Coed Collection]

******

When We Weren’t Looking

When we weren’t looking

To busy with our digits

On our mobile phones

They came and stole our souls

Not all at once

Or we might have noticed

But bit by bit

Until one day

We were unable to see

The Unicorns grazing

In the pastures

Of our minds.

When we weren’t looking

They came and stole our words

One by one

They disappeared

And we did not argue

But watched

As the poetry died.

When we weren’t looking

They came and stole imagination

So we could no longer dream

Aspire or strive.

When we weren’t looking

They came and stole all hope

And to our shame.

We just acquiesced.

******

 

I Am Invisible to Them.

I am invisible to them

An embarrassing pile of rags

A warning of what might be

A threat to complacency

I am Invisible to them

I am nothing to this passing stream of legs

Too busy going to work

Or going home

‘Home’ that magical word.

I am invisible to them

Though an occasional coin will drop

More rarely a word of compassion

Why?

Perhaps they fear a contagion.

I am invisible to them

A blight on the landscape

A dreadful reminder of the what if of life

Therefore: not welcome.

I am invisible to them

That  little piece of effluent

They can never flush away

The running sore on the underbelly of society

Disconcerting

Discomforting

Disgraceful

That is why

I am invisible to them. 

 

******

And finally we come to The Big

 Interview, in which Trefor kindly

 answers writing-related 

questions and lets us into 

some of her writing secrets...

 

1: How old were you when you first knew you wanted to be a writer, and what set you off down that journey?

I have always lived inside my head and escaped reality through imagination. As a child I was always inventing fantasy situations, not unusual in most children, but in my case I never appeared to grow out of it. As to when I seriously considered picking up a pen and transferring my imaginings onto the page, that came much later in life after my early retirement from the Civil Service aged 49 and my decision to enter university and complete my degree.

2: Tell us about the books and writers that have shaped your life and your writing career.

There are many writers I admire, some of whom I can and do reread:  Dickens, Austen, Hardy, to name but a few. There are also some I admire, but find difficult to read and enjoy. One such is Virginia Woolf. There’s no denying that she deserves her place in the pantheon of great English writers, but her writing leaves me unmoved, which probably says more about me than it does about her. However, I do appear to have become fascinated by her life, and to have dogged her footsteps in some ways. I lived for a while near Carbis Bay in Cornwall with a view out to the lighthouse at Godrevy, and also in Lewes which is where she allegedly committed suicide. It was during a walk along the bank of the river Ouse that I was inspired to write ‘Godrevy Sands’. Then there are the two writers I not only admire and reread, but who have inspired me in some way: Salman Rushdie and Angela Carter, both of whom were studied as part of my PhD thesis, Magical Realism: Master or Servant?

3: Have your children, other family members, friends or teachers inspired any of your writing? In what way?

My father disappeared from my life when I was thirteen years old, returning over fifty years later. His return inspired the writing of my poems ‘Lost for Words’ and ‘I finally Got to Call you Dad’ both of which are published in my collection ‘Life, Love, Politics and Other silliness'. The collection also includes a poem written following the death of my mother ‘Funeral of a Woman Called Mother’

4: How would you describe your own writing?    

Most of my poetry is written with performance in mind. As for prose, that varies depending on the subject. My ‘style or form’ is perhaps best summed up by quoting my PhD mentor Professor Ian Davison: ‘Trefor, your prose is poetic and your poetry prosaic’. He was smiling at the time, so I assumed it was complimentary.In novel writing, I tend to plan, but rarely do the characters allow me to stick to it. Poetry tends to be a spontaneous reaction to events, especially so with my more political poems.

        5: Do you have any advice for someone who might be thinking about starting to             write creatively?

        My advice to anyone feeling the urge to write is just do it, get words on the page and           change them later if needed. Do this on a daily basis, and when you aren’t writing                then read, and if the author has made you laugh, or cry, or slam the book shut in                  disgust, then ask yourself how they have managed to arouse such emotion. There is             much to be learned from the work of others.

 

        6: Are you, or have you been in the past, a member of any writing groups, online             or face-to-face? 

      I am a member of Cybi Poets. We used to meet as a group on a monthly basis to share             work and to receive and offer constructive critique. We also used to attend open mike             events. Unfortunately, Covid put paid to all of that, but we hope to reconvene our                 meetings quite soon.

  7: Have you ever studied creative writing at university or any other courses?

  In July 2005, I obtained a ‘Post Graduate Certificate in Creative Writing’ from Bangor           University. Then in July 2014, I completed my Doctorate, also in Creative writing.

 8: What do you think about getting feedback on your work from other writers                 and/or non-writers?

 I appreciate all feedback, but especially that obtained from other writers. It is difficult         to critique one’s own work, so constructive criticism is always welcome,                               though not always acted upon

 9: They say that successful writers need to be selfish. How far do you agree with             this? 

 I would argue that all artists are selfish, but not in a bad way. It’s more a case of being         by nature very much divorced from society in order to observe rather than participate.            Personally, I enjoy socialising, but on my own terms, in small doses and with one ear         cocked for quotable conversation.

10: Beyond your family and your writing, what other things do you do?

When not hunched over my laptop, I enjoy walking, cooking and chatting to any animals I happen to meet. This may sound a little mad, but it’s quite surprising how responsive they can be, especially dogs, cats and horses.

11: Would you describe yourself as a ‘cultured’ person?

I love the theatre; having spent two years in Stratford-upon-Avon with privileged access to RSC productions, I became addicted to the Bard. I also love music, especially classical: lights out, glass of wine and no interruptions is my idea of heaven. However, I hate musac: in supermarkets, shops, lifts and while waiting for my questions not to be answered on the phone. It is a pet hate of mine. Why? It’s as if someone has decided that we humans are afraid of silence and that the mad axe-man one happens to be trapped in the lift with is going to be soothed by a bit of Debussy or the latest rapper. Utter madness.

 

12: Are you interested in history and if so does it impact on your writing?

If I hadn’t chosen to study English as a first degree then I probably would have chosen history. We humans could learn much by studying the mistakes of the past, the fact that we singularly fail to do so is of great sadness to me. Many of the stories included in my collection ‘Bread and Wine’ were inspired by the history of Bulgaria.

 

13: How did the Covid pandemic affect you as a writer?

I was travelling back and forth to Russia during the Covid Pandemic. That, combined with the war in Ukraine, meant that simple trip direct to Moscow was transformed into a logistical nightmare akin to the D day Landings: visa restrictions, proof of valid negative Covid test and indirect flights via obscure airports not operating sanctions – my favourite was Baku in Azerbaijan.  However, Covid restrictions in Moscow were the inspiration to ‘Kafka on the Metro’ a story in my new collection ‘The Bureau of Lost Things’  so it wasn’t all bad.

14: There is a lot of talk at the moment. in the publishing world and elsewhere, about political correctness, the Woke movement, cultural appropriation, ‘cancel culture’, ‘trigger warnings’, sensitivity readers and the importance of diversity. What are your thoughts on this, with regard to writing?

I think we are all aware what the so-called ‘war against Wokery’ is all about. Personally, I intend to remain compassionate, understanding, kind and proudly Woke.

15: Where would you place your own writing, on a continuum with PURE FANTASY at one end and COMPLETE REALISM at the other?

The Title of my PhD thesis gives a clue to my answer to this question. However, providing it is well written, and gives pleasure to the reader, then there is room for ‘pure fantasy’, ‘complete realism’ or a combination of both.

******

Thank you very much, Trefor, for such an interesting and informative showcase. 

******

In April, I will be showcasing 

a fabulous writer whose latest book 

has just been launched:

Karen Downs-Barton

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

Wendy Heydorn - November 2024

Elisabeth Basford - December 2024

Karen Honnor - January 2025

Sharon Henderson - February 2025

Gae Stenson - March 2026 [collaboration]

Dr Trefor Stockwell - March 2025 [collaboration]

You can find all these showcases by scrolling back through the material on this blog.