Wednesday, 27 April 2022

A Slice of Cake With... Maggie Richell-Davies

Today I am delighted to have a slice of cake with author Maggie Richell-Davies.

Maggie won the Historical Writers’ Association 2020 Unpublished Novel Award with The Servant, a historical thriller about the exploitation of young women in the squalid streets of 18th century London. Subsequently published by Sharpe Books, the novel was her first book, although she has several short stories in print.

Much of her life was spent as a PA to people in public life, but she has also sold advertising space for a San Francisco business magazine and worked as a local government officer.

As well as living and working in the United States, Maggie spent a number of years in South America and Africa as a U.N. wife. She is now settled in Tunbridge Wells with her second husband.

What kind of books do you write?

My books are a journey. A way for me to take my reader by the hand and lead her where she has never been before. To open her eyes to how life might have been had she lived in a different time and place – and to entice her to come with me by making the story a page-turning historical thriller, hopefully shot through with mystery and intrigue.

Can you describe your writing why?

I am motivated by a wish to share different worlds with my readers. To explore with them the hidden lives of women in past times – those who are old and middle-aged as well as young - who found it hard to act as heroines in conditions much harsher than anything we experience.

Share with us your favourite passage from the book you enjoyed writing the most

It’s a challenge to convey to a prospective reader what your book’s themes might be, and whether the story offers lightweight escapism or something darker, shot through with social realism. For this reason, I was most satisfied with my opening page, where a flashback provides not only background about my heroine’s past, but foreshadows challenges she will face (and hopefully conquer) as the book unfolds.

London, Spring 1765

Chapter One

‘Let’s have a proper look at you.’

I step within touching distance. The visitor has eaten something strong-smelling. Fragments are lodged between her teeth. And her breath, and what is happening, jolt me back to being ten years old.

Toasted cheese. The mouth-watering odour hit us as we were hustled into the room. Mary and I had been dragged from bed by one of the older girls and hurried, barefoot, to the overseer’s quarters. There was a stranger with her, in a satin gown too bright and young for her face. From the plates and porter bottles on the table, they had just shared a meal.

‘The dark haired one is the looker, with those striking green eyes,’ said the visitor. ‘Hannah Hubert, did you say?’

‘Yes. A handful, though.’

The stranger yanked up my shift and, when I resisted, gave me a slap.

‘Keep still.’ 

Fingers searched, hurting, and I bared my teeth. 

The blow from the overseer knocked me to the hearthrug. Inches from my face was a brass toasting fork and I lunged for it.

‘Don’t!’ A foot stamped on my wrist. ‘Troublesome little bitch.’

I froze, the taste in my mouth bitter. Knowing I could be handled by strangers, like a donkey at a horse fair, and do nothing. 

‘I’ll take the other one.’ The stranger shoved a tattered shawl at the whimpering Mary, sounding bored. ‘Can’t be doing with trouble.’

‘Want me to send for her boots?’

‘We are not going far. Stones and filth under those bare feet will fix her mind on what running off would mean.’ 

Tell us about your latest project

My second historical thriller is half-written and also set in the squalid streets of 18th century London. I can’t share the title yet, but watch this space. It has rogues and counterfeiters, a feisty heroine, a sixty-year-old retired actress with a colourful past, and a dashing naval hero.

What is your favourite cake?

I have a weakness for oversized jam doughnuts smothered in sugar. I particularly enjoy the suspense of not knowing when (and if) your teeth will connect with a generous reservoir of raspberry jam. The subsequent licking of sticky fingers is equally pleasurable, if sadly unladylike.

Connect with Maggie here:

Twitter: @maggiedavieswr1
Instagram: @maggiedavieswriting
Blog: www.maggiedaviesiswriting.com
Writing Group: ninevoices.wordpress.com 

Join me next week when I will be having a slice of cake with Sue Barnard. 

If you would like to take part in A Slice of Cake With... please fill in the form found here. I'd be delighted to have you.

You can also support my writing endeavours and buy me tea & cake on Kofi - it's what makes the world go round!


Claire Buss is a multi-genre author and poet, completely addicted to cake. Find out more about her books on her website clairebuss.co.uk. Join the discussion in her Facebook group Buss's Book Stop. Never miss out on future posts by following me.
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Wednesday, 20 April 2022

A Slice of Cake With... Alana Lorens

This week I am delighted to have a slice of cake with author Alana Lorens.

Alana Lorens and her alter ego, Lyndi Alexander, always dreamed of faraway worlds and interesting alien contacts. She lives as a post-modern hippie in Asheville, North Carolina, a single mother of her last child of seven, a daughter on the autism spectrum, finding that every day feels a lot like first contact with a new species.

What kind of books do you write?

I write stories where everyone has a bit of excitement, a bit of danger, and a good ending—even if it isn’t always happy.  Most of my bad guys aren’t playing around. There will be a trail of bodies. But fear not, they all get their comeuppance.

Can you describe your writing why?

Honestly, my critique group, The Fellowship of the Quill, expecting a new chapter or two every Thursday has been a huge motivation for me. I need to get that instant validation of readers reading and commenting. I went for several years without writing anything at all until, thanks to COVID, I was able to reconnect with the group over ZOOM. Since February 2020, I’ve written three complete novels and published two more besides. They make me so much better.

Share with us your favourite passage from the book you enjoyed writing the most

That last night, Benzi’s father had started on him in the kitchen, bullying the boy for concealing his meager earnings. Didn’t matter if the boy had done anything – if he wasn’t guilty this time, he’d slipped notice some other time, that was pa’s theory. The older man slammed him into the cookstove, raining punches onto him as the boy cowered, trying to protect his head.

 “Ungrateful pup!” Pake shoved him through the back door onto the wooden porch that overhung the river. Desperate, Benzi grabbed the railing, the chill air slicing through him, feet sliding on two inches of ice, frozen spray passing boats had blown up off the stinking water.

“C’mere boy, I’ll teach you to hold your credits back from your ole man!” The elder Quinn stumbled and slid on the ice, grabbing the boy away from the rail. He slammed the wiry youth into the door frame, then lost his footing, dragging them both to the floor. “Think you’re better than your ole man because you got work and he don’t? Well I’ll show you.” As the boy clung to the splintering door frame, Pake struggled to get to his feet, slipping, each slip bringing him closer to darkness past the porch edge where the water rushed cold below.

Benzi watched, darkly fascinated, as his father writhed across the ice from the door to the edge in a clumsy dance of sorts. He felt a lump rise on the back of his neck. Blood trickled where he’d bit his lip. Mist rose off the putrid water beyond the edge of the porch. The air, cold and damp, penetrated his bones. His father’s mumbled curses hung on the air as he finally reached his hand toward Benzi, demanding help.

Instinctively his hand stretched out to his father, but he couldn’t make himself move across the ice to touch the extended fingers. He tried. Knew it was the “right” thing to do. But he couldn’t, even when the old man slipped, grabbed at a rickety chair and disappeared off the edge. 

Tell us about your latest project

My latest book, from The Wild Rose Press, is A Rose By Any Other Name. Up-and-coming mommy blogger and single mom Marisol Herrera Slade returns to her old hometown in western Pennsylvania for her 20th high school reunion in 2005, reluctant and yet compelled to see her high school sweetheart, Russell Asher, who dumped her for the homecoming queen. 

Russell's marriage to the golden girl, however, ended in a nasty divorce, and he has been systematically excluded from his sons' lives. In his Internet wanderings, he's found a feminist blogger named Jerrika Jones, who glorifies single motherhood, essentially putting a stamp of approval on what's happened to him. His group of single dad advocates have vowed to take this woman down. 

What Russell doesn't know, when he thinks to rekindle what he had with Marisol, is that Marisol and Jerrika are one and the same. When his group discovers the truth, will their drive for revenge derail any chance the couple have to reunite? Or will they find they have more in common than they ever expected? 

What is your favourite cake?

Such a hard question! Cake is just all encompassing deliciousness. Oddly, though, when I’m craving cake, it’s really just a simple white cake with buttercream icing.


You can connect with Alana (and Lyndi) here:



Join me next week when I will be having a slice of cake with Maggie Davies. 

If you would like to take part in A Slice of Cake With... please fill in the form found here. I'd be delighted to have you.

You can also support my writing endeavours and buy me tea & cake via Kofi - it's what makes the world go round!



Claire Buss is a multi-genre author and poet, completely addicted to cake. Find out more about her books on her website clairebuss.co.uk. Join the discussion in her Facebook group Buss's Book Stop. Never miss out on future posts by following me. 
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Monday, 18 April 2022

Back In The Chair...

Today marks the end of the Easter school holidays and with it, the end of my writing break. I said I would get back to writing after the holidays and once I felt like my creative well had refilled. 

At the beginning of my break, I honestly didn't know if I would ever feel like writing again. I had stalled with my current book and had zero oomph. 

Initially, after only a few days, some new ideas started swirling through my head. This was encouraging but it soon went quiet and I needed to switch off, do nothing and just exist. So I did. And let me tell you, it was great.

Everyone's plate is different. Everyone is able to handle different things, differently. What's easy for one, is hard for another. The thing is, it's okay to complain about your plate - it's okay to need a smaller one or heck, even a bowl instead. I like a bowl. 

Anyhoo, here we are mid April, and I just printed out what I have so far of my next book. It's not much, but it's a start. 

During my break I also found the energy and time to do some training and get a fresh pair of eyes on what I have so far. I have an uncomfortably long list of things I need to do. So uncomfortable in fact that every time I think about what I need to do, I start to panic and spiral. Baby steps. 

So yeah, tentatively, back in the chair, in front of the laptop, ready to rock.


Claire Buss is a multi-genre author and poet, completely addicted to cake. Find out more about her books on her website clairebuss.co.uk. Join the discussion in her Facebook group Buss's Book Stop. Never miss out on future posts by following me. 
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Wednesday, 13 April 2022

A Slice of Cake With... Frank Prem

Today I am delighted to have a slice of cake with poet Frank Prem.

Frank has been a storytelling poet for forty years. When not writing or reading his poetry to an audience, he fills his time by working as a psychiatric nurse.

He has been published in magazines, e-zines and anthologies, in Australia and in a number of other countries, and has both performed and recorded his work as 'spoken word'.

He and his wife live in the beautiful township of Beechworth in northeast Victoria (Australia).

What kind of books do you write?

I write exclusively in free-form poetry, but within that, I cover a lot of different areas and fields.

For instance, I have written and published two collections that are memoirs - one of growing up in the 1960s and 70s in rural Victoria, Australia (Small Town Kid), and another about my lifetime association with Psychiatry, from a childhood haunting the lunatic asylum where my parents worked, and through a long career as a psychiatric nurse (The New Asylum).


Other collections have dealt with natural disaster (Devil In The Wind), literary works from the past (A Love Poetry Trilogy), and children’s picture books (The Beechworth Bakery Bears).

I enjoy allowing an idea take control of my creative processes and direct me where it will. Next year I expect to release a collection about the sole survivor of take-off on a journey through the galaxy (The Cielonaut), incorporating sixty or so images taken from the NASA database.

I am very excited about that.

Can you describe your writing why?

I have written poetry all my life, from school days. It has become a part of me. I often think about the old saying that by the time you have put 10,000 hours of effort into any field, you will be an expert.

I have a theory about that. I believe that the more I pursue my craft, the more my mind responds in the sense of brain plasticity. Now, I believe I’ve reached a point where I think in poems and my poems are my thoughts on paper.

The poetry and I are one.

Share with us your favourite passage from the book you enjoyed writing the most

It is very difficult to choose among children, Claire, but I’ll try.

I think that in recent times, the book that I have most enjoyed writing and putting together was one titled Sheep On The Somme. This book has used images taken during the first world war - predominantly from the Western Front and Australian troops - and I have written poem-stories in response to each.


The images are starkly powerful and evocative.

The poem that comes to mind in response to this question is one titled ‘glutton’. It is a long poem, so I’ll just provide the beginning.

glutton

I live
in a hole
in the ground

I share it
with a rat
and some lice
that think they own me

we have reached
an agreement
a compromise
about the food

I eat
from soggy ration packs
the lice
eat
from me

the rat
will not discuss
his cuisine
or culinary treasures . . .

Tell us about your latest project

My very latest project is actually a sequel. It is my very first sequel and it had never occurred to me that I would write one. The book is a picture book of some 70 pages, and suitable for the 0 - 12 year old age group, but written for any reader, really. It is called ‘Waiting For Frank-Bear’, and probably needs a little explanation.

My profession is psychiatric nursing and my shifts often start at seven o’clock in the morning. I like to start the day by having a coffee before work in the local bakery. 

A while ago I discovered that I had established - without realising it - a relationship with the Teddy Bears sold as merchandise in the bakery. I took pictures and ended up writing a little book of their stories called ‘The Beechworth Bakery Bears’. I consider this to be an accidental children’s book.


Recently, I found there was another story to tell, which dealt with the way in which the Bears coped with the effects of Covid 19 lockdowns (we have had six, where I live) and changes in the shop. For example, far less customers inside, no sitting down, mandatory masks and mandatory sign-ins.

At the same time, my own presence in the Bakery was minimised because I was not able to continue my early morning practice. Hence the new book - Waiting For Frank-Bear.

Waiting For Frank-Bearis out in hardback, paperback and ebook. 


The Beechworth Bakery Bears are more than items of merchandise. They have very real individual character about them and are very rewarding to get to know. Of course, they would love to be purchased and given a home away from the Bakery.

What is your favourite cake?

This is another tricky question, Claire.

My wife Leanne and I were discussing our ‘good old days’ the other night, when we would get out an oven tray and assemble a massive sticky date pudding. It was a wonderful creation and we would eat our way through it over a few days.

Young and foolish, and couldn’t possibly do that now!

Instead, I’m going to nominate uncooked cheesecake as my favourite cake. I just love the creaminess of it, with either strawberry or passionfruit topping.

Mmm Hmm! I want some, now.


Connect with Frank here:


If you would like to take part in A Slice of Cake With... please fill in the form found here. I'd be delighted to have you.

You can also support my writing endeavours through Kofi and buy me tea & cake - it's what makes the world go round!


Claire Buss is a multi-genre author and poet, completely addicted to cake. Find out more about her books on her website clairebuss.co.uk. Join the discussion in her Facebook group Buss's Book Stop. Never miss out on future posts by following me. 

at 2 comments:

Wednesday, 6 April 2022

A Slice of Cake With... John Bowers

This week I am delighted to have a slice of cake with John Bowers. 

John discovered his love of writing in the seventh grade. He began his first novel at age 13 and before he graduated high school, he wrote four more. Today he is the author of three popular science fiction series: the Starport series; the Nick Walker, U.F. Marshal series; and the Fighter Queen saga. Bowers is married and lives in California with his wife and two cats. Now retired, he is a computer programmer by profession, but a Born Novelist by birth. 

What kind of books do you write?

My stories all take place in either the future or a different universe. E.g.; The Fighter Queen saga and the Nick Walker series both take place in our (Earth’s) future. The Starport series takes place in a different star system entirely.

Can you describe your writing why?

Writing is a compulsion. I think it’s because I was so bored as a kid, when I couldn’t get to the library to check out books, I started writing my own. Why do I write? Dogs have to bark, I have to write.

Share with us your favourite passage from the book you enjoyed writing the most

Tough one! Twenty-two novels, hundreds of great scenes (yes, I’m blowing my own horn).

Let’s try this one, from Famine Planet:

The sleds lifted off, formed into parallel convoy lines, and skimmed forward. In less than a minute they were approaching the hillsides where the fighting had been hottest; smoke still drifted from a dozen brushfires and guns were firing, a few rebels fighting a rear-guard action to cover the retreat.
The sleds soared low over the hills and dived down again as the next valley opened up. Terra saw a road up ahead, long and straight, a narrow ribbon of pavement that stretched toward the next line of hills six or seven miles in the distance. At least a hundred vehicles, everything from dilapidated farm trucks to cut-down passenger cars, were racing down the road at full speed. Sunlight glinted back from chrome surfaces, and Terra saw armed men aiming their weapons at the waves of oncoming sleds.
“Light ‘em up!” Wilma shouted as she dived lower and broke into the lead.
Terra swung her Twin Forties into position, attached her belly strap, and pulled the shoulder grips tight. She had an open car in her sights but was still too far out to fire with any accuracy, so she took a deep breath and waited. Bullets whined past the sled, others ricocheted off the hull. Terra sighted the center of the car and waited a few more seconds…
At two hundred yards she opened fire. The gun mount shuddered in her grip as twin streams of tracer streaked toward the vehicle, striking it in the rear of the passenger compartment and walking forward. Glass and metal and bits of seat-cushion fabric swirled into the air as the bullets ripped through the car; the men in the back seat were smashed into bloody pulp, their rifles pinwheeling from lifeless fingers. The driver’s head evaporated into a crimson explosion; the blood spray spattered Terra’s PlastiGlass shield, obscuring her vision. She levered the shield control and it sank into its recess, leaving her exposed to enemy fire. It was a calculated risk—the rebels were firing blindly, their shots going wild, and she needed to see her targets.
The car fell behind and she began drawing a bead on a farm truck loaded with terrified rebels. She fired again, gently hosing the vehicle from side to side. For two or three terrible seconds the rear of the truck was bathed in pink mist as the rebel soldiers disintegrated under her slugs. Arms, legs, and heads flew out onto the road, where they bounced sickeningly in the truck’s wake. Without warning, the truck began to swerve, then hooked to the left and flipped, grinding any survivors under the wreckage as it skidded down the highway. More blood spray whipped over the sled, drenching Terra’s face with pulverized gore.
Wilma nosed up slightly as another sled took the lead; Terra took the opportunity to catch her breath and wipe her face. She spat blood out of her mouth and recharged her guns. Racing like hounds, the leading sleds began leapfrogging each other, first one, then another taking the point. A minute later Wilma was back in front, and Terra’s body shuddered under the recoil as her guns hammered again. She was dimly aware of the men behind her cheering each time she hosed a vehicle on the road—every rebel she killed was one they wouldn’t have to face on the ground.
She machine-gunned three more cars and two trucks, then another sled took over. Terra wiped her face again, picking off bits of flesh. Something had stuck to her throat and she peeled it off—her stomach churned as she recognized it as an ear, and she flung it away in disgust. She quickly dug out her canteen and swallowed a mouthful to still the convulsion in her gut that was filling her mouth with salty saliva. The cold water helped; she popped her magazines and loaded fresh ones.
Suddenly the road up ahead became congested with stalled vehicles. Aware of the slaughter behind them, rebel drivers had decided they had a better chance on foot, and quickly stopped to let their passengers run for it. Terra saw hundreds of men spreading out on both sides of the road, running into the cornfields, which were barely waist-high at this stage of the growing season. Some sleds continued to strafe the vehicles, setting them ablaze, but Wilma veered left and throttled back, soaring ten feet above the routing rebels. Almost no one was shooting back as Terra and half a dozen other gunners blazed away, mowing them down by the score. Shouts and screams, barely audible above the chatter of guns, filled the air as the cornfield gradually turned from green to red. Blood fountained everywhere and a pink cloud drifted on the breeze. Askeloni sleds turned and circled, crisscrossing the fields in search of more victims. Finally a few rebels threw up their hands and the pilots were ordered to back off; several unloaded their troops to round up the survivors.
As Wilma banked away toward the road and its inferno of burning cars, Terra slumped in her harness, emotionally and mentally exhausted. Her body trembled, both from the vibration of her guns and the horror of her deed. She felt numb. It hadn’t been that long ago that she sat on a mountain road in Llanovista Province on Tropicon, the morning sun hot on her back, staring at a convoy of burning trucks and the mangled bodies of over a thousand men who had died without firing a shot. That had been the most horrible day of her life, and she was one of the lucky few who survived.
Now she was doing the killing.
She closed her eyes and sat breathing deeply, trying to shut out the last few minutes. Combat was one thing, but this felt more like murder.
She looked around as someone tapped her on the shoulder. Dennis Chandler was leaning forward, his face grim.
“That was quite a demonstration, Private. I’d say you deserve that Crystal Cross. You’re a born killer.”
His cameraman zoomed her bloody face in all its gory splendor. She had no way of knowing that, in about thirty hours, she would be the lead story on the Askelon Evening News.


Tell us about your latest project

I have no projects at the moment, but I do have 22 novels on Amazon. They make up three series.

The Starport series is political in nature, inspired by American politics. It’s about the first female president of the planet Askelon and the attempts of powerful forces to take her down, regardless of the damage to democracy. Five novels.

The Fighter Queen stories are about a galactic war in which the Sirian Confederacy, which has a primitive world view in which racism and slavery are rampant, embarks on a series of conquests to conquer and enslave other worlds, including Terra (Earth). The Fighter Queen is a girl named Onja Kvoorik, born on Vega 3 during the Sirian occupation, smuggled to Terra by her father when she was 12 years old. Her single goal in life is to defeat the Confederacy and free her mother and sister, both slaves of Sirius. Five novels.

Nick Walker, United Federation Marshal, is about a young lawman, a Star Marine veteran, who enforces the law on the Final Frontier. Some have called it a “space western” and some have even compared it to Firefly (although I don’t see the relevance). Nick Walker is my best-selling series. Twelve novels.

What is your favourite cake?

Chocolate.


You can find all of John's books on Amazon: www.amazon.co.uk/John-Bowers/e/B004UFOT3U

Join me next week when I will be having a slice of cake with Lyndi Alexander. 

If you would like to take part in A Slice of Cake With... please fill in the form found here. I'd be delighted to have you.

You can also support my writing endeavours and buy me tea & cake - it's what makes the world go round!


Claire Buss is a multi-genre author and poet, completely addicted to cake. Find out more about her books on her website clairebuss.co.uk. Join the discussion in her Facebook group Buss's Book Stop. Never miss out on future posts by following me. 
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