Would you tell us about yourself.
I’m in my thirties, I live in Bristol with my partner, and I’ve been making stuff up and writing it down since I was old enough to hold a pen. I used to work in a record shop and dabbled in music journalism, but I always wrote fiction, and my first novel, Hierath, was published in 2003. My friends claim I’m slightly obsessed with cake. For the last five years I’ve also been the chair of BristolCon, and I run the Bristol Fantasy and SF Society Facebook group. I’m familiar with the concept of spare time, as something that happens to other people.
Do you tend to be a plotter or a pantser?
I’m an inveterate pantser. I always have virtuous thoughts about plotting, but they tend to fly out of the window when I start to write and the story takes hold of me. I usually have a destination in mind when I start, and three or four things that I would like to happen in the story, but the characters insist on getting there in their own way, and that’s half the fun, letting them lead the story and spring surprises on me. I think if I plotted in great detail I might get bored.
What do you like best about writing?
The same thing that I like best about reading, the opportunity to immerse myself in a totally different world for a few hours, with the added bonus that it’s my world and I can (supposedly) do what I like with it – I say supposedly, because sometimes my characters have other ideas. I love worldbuilding, and I totally fall in love with my characters and want to know what happens to them!
What do you find most challenging about writing?
There are days when the words just won’t come out, or when they do they’re wrong, and that’s very frustrating. About one-third and two-thirds of the way through a first draft is the worst, the transition between the beginning and the middle, and the middle and the end. Especially when you’ve written so much that you don’t want to stop, but the end is still so far away! That’s kind of disheartening, and I’ve found the best thing to do is plough through it, just writing a few lines a day until I get over the hump, and repeatedly telling myself that no matter how awful it looks now, there’s nothing that can’t be fixed in editing. You can’t edit a blank page. As my friend Gareth Powell is fond of saying, “don’t get it right, get it written!”
Would you tell us about your latest or upcoming release?
My upcoming release is The Art of Forgetting, published by Kristell Ink on June 30th, and available for pre-order now from the website. It’s about a hero with a unique, infallible memory, who joins the cavalry in the hope of finding his long-lost father, only to find that what he remembers of his father is at odds with the way the rest of the world sees him. It’s about how he comes to terms with the past, and about how that journey sets him on a collision course with everything and everyone of importance to him.
What are you working on now?
I’m currently about two-thirds of the way though the first draft of The Summer Goddess, which is set in the same world as The Art of Forgetting about thirty years later. It’s about a woman in search of her kidnapped nephew, who has been enslaved by a cult, but I can’t say any more than that because I’m kind of superstitious about saying too much about books while I’m still writing them!
Please share an excerpt from your latest release.
Rhodri had had enough. If Jime and Dru were going to fight they would bring the whole barracks down around them, and that was probably the best distraction he could have. He was off at a run, darting from shadow to shadow, past the kitchen door and around the well before it occurred to him that a cadet on legitimate business had no need to run. He slowed to a brisk walk, heart dancing a quickstep inside his ribcage.
By the time he reached the door to the classroom his mouth was dust-dry, and he hadn’t thought to bring a drink. He licked his lips with a tongue that felt like leather, then lifted the latch to let himself in to shuttered darkness. His hand fell easily on the stubby candle in its niche by the door. He scraped his candlestones together to spark the wick alight, and set the candle on Skyne’s desk.
The empty classroom was cold, and Rhodri twitched at every little noise, the wind rustling against the shutters, the bang of a door on an upper floor, all magnified by his fear. He just wanted to get out of here. This was a stupid idea.
He rattled the drawer of Skyne’s desk. It was locked, as he had expected, but he’d seen the Old Crow lock and unlock it enough times. Carrying a chair across so its legs didn’t screech on the floor, he climbed up on it and felt along the top lip of the chalk board until his fingers came into contact with cold metal. He scooped the tiny key into his palm and scrambled down.
His fingers were shaking so violently it took several attempts to force it into the keyhole, but at last it turned with a smooth click. He was in.
As Rhodri pulled open the drawer something heavy rolled towards him. A small bottle of wine, stoppered with a cork, hit the wood with a thump that would have brought his dinner back up, had he eaten. He pushed it aside. The parchment was at the bottom of the drawer and Rhodri cursed as he tilted the candle and dripped a telltale blob of wax onto the papers. Hopefully Skyne wouldn’t notice.
As he lifted it out his fingers tangled in something soft, like a scarf or a worn rag, which was pulled along with the sheaf of papers. Not a scarf; a simple band of fabric. As the candlelight fell on it, he was staggered by a jolt of memory so powerful he had to grab the edge of the desk to keep from reeling backwards against the chalk board.
The band was black, with a circle on it which had once been white but was now faded to grey and spattered with pale brown spots of dried blood, scarring the stylised head of a wolf staring out from the cloth. It was his father’s symbol, the symbol that marked his livery, his flag, the great gold sealing-ring that flashed on his finger. Rhodri had seen it so many times, and every line was etched into his memory like a burning brand. Why was his father’s symbol hidden away in the bottom of Skyne’s desk drawer? Had the Old Crow known his father? Or was it a token snatched from an enemy in battle?
He realised he was staring at it, heedless of time passing, and he stuffed it back where he had found it. He was tempted for a moment to steal it, but Skyne would be sure to notice the loss, and a whole heap of trouble would spill from the theft. He dragged his attention back to the test paper.
Questions and answers were inscribed in black ink in the Old Crow’s flowing, elegant hand. Rhodri scanned the long list, committing each one to memory, then carefully placed the parchment back at the bottom of the drawer. He let his fingers brush the cloth once more, then he locked it, and clambered up to replace the key. He was still balanced on the chair when he heard the approaching tramp of feet in the corridor, and the booming voice of the Old Crow himself, who should have been miles away in the city at this moment.
The door rattled. There was nowhere to hide, nothing to do but brazen it out. Rhodri jumped down, trying to land light-footed, but his heel caught the chair and sent it clattering to the ground, knocking over the candle as the light from the corridor blazed a band across the classroom, exposing him in all his guilt.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing in my classroom, cadet?”
Thank you very much for being a guest, Joanne!
Thank you very much for having me!
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