Blog Hop: The Next Big Thing

A blog hop is a way for readers to discover authors they might not have heard of and whose works they might enjoy. On this stop on the blog hop, you'll find a bit of information about me, my upcoming book and of course links to other authors. Many thanks to Fantasy author Linda Talbot for inviting me to join!

Click the link for more about Linda and her Next Big Thing "The Starflash Opal".

1. What is the working title of your book?  > The working title of my first book is "A Place in the Choir", for the sequel undecided.
2. Where did the idea come from for the book? > From life experiences, observation and discussion about the dangers of power when vested in a few. To keep power in oneself, others must be programmed to become submissive and unquestioning. This applies to book one. The second book examines the damage done within such a scenario to vulnerable and impressionable young people. It traces a journey in which the main character tries to regain some of what has been lost.
3. What genre does your book come under? > Tragicomedy.
4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition? > I really don’t know although I can imagine the Irish actress Tina Kelleher as a wonderful Ellie. She played Sharon in the adaptation for film of Roddy Doyle’s book "The Snapper". I would cast Anthony Hopkins as the predator priest and Richard Gere as Professor Craig. After this flight of presumptuous fancy I may as well go for Tom Cruise as Colin and Julia Roberts as a very plausible Zita.  I’m looking around for a strong, opinionated, sharp tongued and frequently hysterical actor to play Eleanor. Sorry I don’t want to embarrass myself further!!
5. What is a one sentence synopsis of your book? > Ellie, an Irish country girl, mistakenly joins a convent to fulfill her need to belong. (book one)
6. Is your book self published, published by an independent publisher or represented by an agency? > Independently published and being revised for publication as an eBook. A decision has yet to be taken about publication choice for the sequel.
7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript? > Three years for "A Place in the Choir" and I’m now one year on with the sequel.
8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre? > I have not read any book to which I can honestly compare them.
9. Who or what inspired you to write this book? > Family, friends and colleagues.
10. What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest? > “Are nuns human, after all?”

I'd love to continue this blog hop and hope to hear soon from a few writers I contacted.

If you are a writer who is interested in joining, please comment!

Rust on my Roses

Rust on my roses
And four brand new kittens.

Leaves at the front door and
a load of bird shittins.
Holding a hose filled with water and power,
I got back what I gave
In an unwanted shower.

                            Marie at nine this morning.

Dejected, indoors and dry again I opened my laptop and searched for my friend Linda Talbot to see what this wonderful writer had been doing. I discovered her most recent publication on Smashwords. It’s titled, In the Eye of the Storm. Just what I needed, an inspiring trilogy of poems centered upon aspects of nature, emotions and inspiration generated from living in Greece. Her impressions and thoughts reminded me that my roses are actually far more resilient that we think – nature holds its own secrets. Thank you Linda!

Linda can be found at lindajtalbot.wordpress.com  ( she is also a well known fantasy writer of short stories ).

Supermarket

Last Saturday we went shopping. My husband pushed the trolley while I perused the well stocked shelves. He wandered off and I had to follow him with a bottle of white wine, a package of carrots and a couple of cans of “pretty kitty” cat food in my arms. Our trolley had been abandoned in mid aisle so I put my chosen items in. I waited patiently thinking that some raspberry ripple ice cream would be an ideal addition to our weekend menu.

A robust man strode towards me with petite wife alongside. Peering into “our” trolley he extracted the wine bottle, the blushing carrots and the cans of “pretty kitty” cat food. Holding each aloft he boomed, ‘do we really need these dear? I despise white wine and we don’t even have a cat.’

I retreated hastily almost falling into our trolley which had since our last encounter, been laden with car seat covers, a garden rake and other sinister looking objects. ‘I think we’ve got everything now,’ my husband beamed. ‘No,’ I replied ‘we’ve yet to get wine, carrots “pretty kitty” and I just remembered some raspberry ripple ice cream too!

A Goat of Many Colours

   We’d won a goat. We couldn’t believe it, a real live goat! This awesome event happened at a fund raiser for the local village school. My husband bought several tickets and paid in drachmes which was the currency of the time. Seated with our friends at a table laden with delicious Cretan food we drank red wine while Cretan musicians and dancers entertained the gathering. The young and able bodied danced. The not so able bodied danced too but didn’t try the intricate steps required for high jumps or for balancing on a glass placed on the neck of a bottle.

   Silence fell when the drawing of tickets was about to begin. The master of ceremonies called out numbers which meant a prize for the holder of that ticket. My husband said that he wasn’t lucky, he never won anything. ‘Never say never’ – because he certainly was lucky that night by becoming the proud owner of a goat. Panic overtook him as he was clapped and cheered on the way to claim his prize. Self consciously he asked if perhaps he could swop the goat for a radio, a clock, a picture frame or maybe a bottle of Raki. ‘Not possible,’ he was told but he could have the goat freezer ready if he preferred. This was not an option but what were we to do?

   Advice came from all sides, ‘get a second goat to keep  her company,’ ‘build a nice little shed for her,’ ‘tie her to a post and move her around the garden on the half hour,’ ‘put very high fencing all around your land,’ ‘don’t let her escape because she’ll eat a complete garden in less than an hour,’ ‘keep your clothes line at least a few kilometers away from her,’ ‘set your alarm for four in the morning and milk her at the same time in the evening - she must have a routine.’ Thankfully our Cretan friend Manolis offered to look after our goat. He would do this on condition that the babies would be his. We were delighted and very relieved. We asked him to call her Venus and we promised to visit her from time to time.

   Manolis had reservations about her name but he agreed to call her Venus when the neighbours were not listening. We visited our darling Venus and she was a beautiful little animal. Her coat which was snow white had three brown spots on the back and a brown spot between her ears. She seemed to smile at us and looked really happy with her lot amongst other fine goats. The next time we passed the farm Manolis was at the gate. “My friends’ he beamed ‘you come to see your baby Venus. She’s doing fine. I’ll get her.’ He did but this goat was black and the only white was on the tip of her tail. I tried to say that he had the wrong goat but Manolis looked so proud of this animal and so pleased to show her to us that we stayed quiet.

   ‘Manolis made a mistake’ my husband said when we were driving away. ‘He just got confused and I didn’t want to make a fuss.’ ‘Me neither’ I replied ‘but I didn’t see a white goat there like Venus; did you? Let’s go back next week and we’ll pick her out ourselves.’ We couldn’t wait to reassure ourselves about the welfare of Venus but next time Manolis brought us a brown goat with white splashes across her flank. ‘Oh Venus,’ he said softly, ‘you are the most beautiful goat I’ve ever had on my farm.’ I pointed out that this goat was not our Venus. Our beauty had a white coat with brown spots – where is she, where is our Venus? ‘But this is Venus,’ Manolis insisted. ‘Don’t you know that you have a goat of many colours?’

Anastasia

   My grandmother Anastasia loved peony roses and beetroot. I don’t mean in a sandwich for lunch but because she adored the colours -- pinks, purples and almost red. Each spring I looked forward to seeing these roses which grandfather planted amongst the cabbages. The various shades of pink and pale red looked wonderful. I loved the deep purple beetroot too and when granny peeled these vegetables I’d dip my fingers into the bright water and expect my mother to admire eight indelible purple digits.

   My niece held a bouquet of peony roses on her wedding day not knowing that these were her great grandmother’s favourite flower. Such a revelation made her extremely happy although she had not picked her special roses from amongst the cabbages! I don’t recall having beetroot with the wedding banquet either -- but my finger nails were purple!

I wrote a poem once about my granny:

                                        Child Walks with Grandmother

                                Early Spring, my child hand coiled in yours,

                                Sliding like snail where bright bluebell grows in greenness.

                                Trailing long dusky dress, lace collared chin,

                                One side upturned, your hat holds pearly pin.

                                Where trout lie low – bending

                                Into weaving water, we observe

                                our faces, blending.

Emergency Greek

I was determined to learn Greek. It was not as easy as I expected but my husband and I wanted to know what our Greek neighbours were really saying.  Gradually my Greek vocabulary increased and even though I had not progressed to complete sentences I could manage a few phrases.

From our house we daily admired a lovely group of tall pine trees. So you can imagine our desperation when the electricity company decided that some of these trees had to be removed. New cables had to be erected and since these would penetrate through the pines there was the possibility of the trees becoming a fire hazard. I saw the trucks from our upstairs terrace. I saw the men with the chain saws and very soon I heard their destructive sound.

I was distraught and automatically went into combative mode – as an upset pseudo Cretan woman had a right to do. I recalled the Greek I’d learned and shouted ‘Crete is beautiful, now Crete is not beautiful, you are a bad man, don’t work in the garden bad man, Matt is my husband and we have a dog, I would like some red wine, close the gate bad man, please, thank you, the beach is beautiful, I like fish, go out bad man and wait for the bus at the bus stop.’

 Eventually, having shouted non -stop for about ten minutes I ran out of steam. The bad man and his mates were hiding behind cable drums, a van and a truck. The dangerous saws had stopped working. I readied my final salve but instead of shouting, ‘I’m going to the police’ I screamed, ‘and now I’m going to the Post Office!’ The workers came out of hiding and the sawing resumed. Today we serenade a lonesome pine.

Winnie the Dog

I’m an animal lover and we have rescued a dog and several cats since coming to Crete. The first dog to come to live with us was Winnie. Her owner who had rescued her from an animal shelter had to return to England and she needed a new home in Crete.

Winnie was about seven years old when we got her and she lived for another seven. A sheep dog collie cross, black and white with a beautiful fan like tail and a snow white apron, Winnie became a precious part of our household. She was welcomed in the village, helped the local shepherd to direct his sheep into the field, let our new kitten Juno sit on her back, lay under the table while we tried to learn Greek, attempted to participate in Art classes and slept in a most luxurious bean bag.

Winnie was the first to hear each new episode from my novel A Place in the Choir. As we walked along old donkey trails I’d tell her about my latest idea for the book. If she liked it she’d look at me lovingly but if in her doggie mind I was talking rubbish she’d turn away to investigate something  more interesting along the grass verge.

Winnie never barked except when a white box van passed us on the main road. I often wondered why she became so upset on seeing such a vehicle and why against her usual placid nature she’d chase the van until it was out of sight. What tales of joy and sadness animals could tell us if only they could speak?

Since we lost our Winnie we have attempted to home other dogs and in each case our efforts failed. Someday when I look towards our gate perhaps I’ll see a Winnie look-alike waiting there for it to open.

Pink on the White Mountains

I want to tell you that this morning the peaks of the White Mountains glowed with a pinkish hue in the early morning light. Walking around our little piece of Crete I was stunned by the beauty which surrounded me. The wild flowers had appeared silently and suddenly. A sea of purple, blue and fuchsia anemone glowed amongst tiny marigold, white daisies and yellow Maltese buttercups. Luminous weeds all displaying magnificent resilience, shape and volume are a fitting background to such a tapestry.

A Lesson in Slurping

It June 2000 Pantelis celebrated a name day. He planned a party in his village house which we had rented and already occupied for two weeks – our first fourteen days in Crete. We weren’t sure what a Name Day meant but we suspected that in Crete it was even more important than a birthday. We decided on our contribution -- the largest water melon we could carry.

We waited in Villa Ilios until the old wall clock showed seven in the evening. Was the party being held elsewhere we worried? Should we arrange tables outside on the veranda? It was almost dark, the mosquitoes were active and moths flung themselves towards the light. If nobody came to the house how many weeks would we need to consume our massive piece of fruit?

My husband Matt glimpsed a man lighting the barbeque. They saluted each other through black billowing smoke. As Anna, the wife of Pantelis, rushed indoors with tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and onions she gestured to me. I suspected it was my job to prepare many salads. While I peeled, skinned,  chopped and cried I was delighted to see women from the village appear with trays of pies, freshly baked bread, local sausages and various dips. The aroma of barbequed meat rose into the night air.

But where was Anna? ‘She’s weeding the garden,’ Matt whispered. ‘What?’ I screeched, ‘She’s weeding the garden while I need her help. ’Anna carried the weeds indoors and swamping them in a sink of cold water she washed and rinsed, washed and rinsed over and over and over, then having strained the ‘weeds’ she steamed them in large pan. The contents were drained and strained, showered with olive oil and lemon juice and we all sat down to enjoy a delicacy.

In my bowl an island of dark green floated in pale green water. I observed the guests slurping enthusiastically. The quality of these horta (wild greens) was exceptional Pantelis explained. He slapped Matt on the back and gave him an encouraging look. Matt reluctantly took up his spoon, slurped and smiled. Following his example I slowly sampled the dish – and in no time I too was enjoying my first taste of horta while learning to slurp as noisily and appreciatively as the locals.