Patricia M Osborne

The Books for Older Readers BFOR Facebook group and website were established in October 2017 to promote books (mainly fiction) with older protagonists or themes such as ‘second chances’, which tend to appeal to readers in mid-life or beyond.

I am delighted to be included in the BFOR BLOG BLITZ and bring to you an interview with Isabella Muir.

Thank you Isabella for joining me today. Isabella is not only a fellow Chindi author but also a member of BFOR. Isabella is here to talk about her writing including her latest novel, The Forgotten children.

How long have you been writing?

Believe it or not, I won a school writing competition when I was at junior school and I have been writing in one form or another ever since.  I messed around with short stories and poetry as a teenager and then started writing longer works of fiction in earnest once I was in my thirties.

Do you have a special routine for your writing?

I write my first draft by hand, with a pencil in a notebook.  I prefer afternoons to write and I need quiet and solitude – not even background music.  Then when I transfer the first draft to the computer (using Scrivener) I do a bit of a first edit.  After that I’ll send the manuscript off to my two amazing writing buddies, who will give me invaluable feedback about content and structure.  Then it’s all about a million more hours editing until the final draft is ready to upload!

Which point of view do you prefer to write in and why?

I enjoy both and I think much depends on the storyline. The narrator in The Forgotten Children is Emily, the protagonist.  It is an emotional story to tell and it felt right to allow Emily to tell it in her own words.

Do you have a favourite character?

That’s a tricky one to answer.  I have favourite authors and favourite books, but I’m not sure I have a favourite character.  If I had to choose one, then perhaps Jane Eyre – she is so full of courage in spite of the heart-breaking start she had to her life.

Are you a plotter or pantser?

It’s been fascinating for me to see how my novels emerge.  I’m not a great planner, although I am constantly striving to be better!  I have the rough idea of the plot in my head and usually know the ending, but I find that once I am seated with my notebook and pencil in hand the characters tell me what I need to know.  If I try to shoehorn them into scenarios that don’t suit them then I can sense their discontent.

When I was working on my Sussex Crime series it was vital that I was familiar with the ongoing timelines.  I learned to keep a tight rein on character traits and timelines by using Scrivener, which is a wonderful resource for writers.

You can purchase the Sussex Crime Mysteries  here.

What advice would you give to new writers?

Enjoy exploring and discovering your own unique voice.  Try to write at least a few words every day and don’t give up!  A writing friend of mine always reminds me that the writing process is more like a marathon than a sprint – we need to keep going and hopefully we keep improving.

What is it about your books that draws in the older reader?

My books are set in the sixties, an era that older readers will remember.  It seems incredible that just sixty years ago very few people had televisions or home telephones and now many of us walk around with a gadget that allows us to speak to people and watch films – while on the move!  My books give older readers a chance to immerse themselves in that iconic era – and escape our fast-changing world – just for a while.

Would you like to share the first 500 words from your latest novel ?

This is the opening to The Forgotten Children, a story inspired by true events.

Chapter 1

Brighton

1987 

Mark is a casualty of a war I’ve been having since December 1967. A war with more than one enemy and only one true ally, my beautiful Irish friend, Geraldine. In truth, if it were not for Geraldine, I would have spent most of the last twenty years unattached and free from the emotional demands that inevitably come from any relationship. But Geraldine, Gee to her friends, can’t bear to see me single. So I ditch one bloke, only to be introduced to another. If it wasn’t so sad it would be funny.

Mark is the latest. We’ve been together just short of two years. He’s funny, uncomplicated and a great dancer. All attributes that score him ten out of ten in Gee’s books, and leaves me wondering why she didn’t go out with him herself.

I can’t imagine a time when Mark and I would ever be as synchronised as Gee and Alan, who have been together so long they even finish each other’s sentences. Nevertheless, life with Mark is easy enough. We party late at weekends and usually crawl out of bed at midday, nursing muzzy heads.

But since a visit to the doctor confirmed the reason I had lost my appetite, I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage to tell him our partying days are over. We will have to leave our little house, with its terraced garden higher than the roof and find a place with a flat patch of grass and a few leafy trees.

Now, as I lay in bed with Mark beside me, I close my eyes tightly and picture our new garden, with a seat under an apple tree where I could sit and watch our child play. And that is the moment I recognise the betrayal. I’m dreaming of a new life while my first born is out there somewhere, maybe living, maybe dead.

The bleeding started earlier in the day and as I turn onto my side, it gets heavier. It’s a suitable punishment for a crime I took part in, albeit unwillingly. I try not to move for a few moments, foolishly hoping I can stop this from happening.

Mark shifts beside me in bed. I peer at the luminescent numbers on the purple alarm clock that sits inches from my face. The numbers flick silently as a minute passes, then another. It is 3.30am precisely when I use one elbow to nudge him.

‘I think I’m having a miscarriage,’ I say, keeping any emotion from my voice.

I feel him swing his legs out of bed. He turns the bedside light on. I am scared to move and with my back to him I can’t see his face, but I can sense him trying to move himself from a deep slumber to waking.

‘You need to ring for an ambulance. I’m bleeding.’

He walks around the bed and kneels, then runs his hand over my forehead. As he pulls the sheets and blankets away from me, I hear him gasp. I look down to see the worst of it. The blood has pooled below me, seeping across the bedsheet, like ink on blotting paper.

‘Oh God, Em. I didn’t know. You didn’t tell me.’

‘It doesn’t matter now, just get me to the hospital.’ 

Story continues…

If you’re hooked on that taster take yourself over to here where you can purchase a copy of The Forgotten Children in Kindle, audio, and paperback versions.

Thank you Isabella for joining me today and talking about your writing and giving readers a taste of The Forgotten Children. 

If you have any questions for Isabella about her writing then leave a question at the end of this blog or contact her on one of her links below. 

About Isabella 

Isabella Muir is the author of a popular crime series – the Sussex Crime Mysteries. The stories are set in the sixties and seventies and feature a young librarian and amateur sleuth, Janie Juke, who has a passion for Agatha Christie. All that Janie has learned from her hero, Hercule Poirot, she is able to put into action as she sets off to solve a series of crimes and mysteries.

Her latest novel – The Forgotten Children – takes her writing into another genre.  Still focusing on events in the 1960s, The Forgotten Children tells the story of the injustices experienced by thousands as a result of the British child migrant policy.

Isabella has been surrounded by books her whole life and – after working for more than twenty years as a technical editor and having successfully completed her MA in Professional Writing – she was inspired to focus on fiction writing.

Aside from books, Isabella has a love of all things caravan-like. She has spent many winters caravanning in Europe and now, together with her husband, she runs a small caravan site in Sussex.

Find out more about the whole range of titles from Isabella Muir: 

Website 

Twitter 

Facebook   

Amazon author page

Email

 

 

 

 

 

It’s been a while since I posted a story for the challenge and that’s because I’ve been away at Swanwick Writers’ Summer School and then on to a writer friend’s house in Nottingham. Watch out for a blog about Swanwick.

In the meantime here’s the latest challenger, Stephen Oak, with his response titled Closed for Business. 

The busy chatter has faded. The jingling tills have fallen silent and the traders’ shouts no longer reverberate round the marketplace. Those who remain are intent on counting up the day’s takings, stuffing coins and banknotes into crinkled carrier bags. Stalls are dismantled. Van doors slam. Somewhere in the distance a balloon bursts and a child starts to cry.

No-one notices the young man strolling, almost invisible, across the square. No-one sees the bulge in his jacket nor the flash of the knife. No-one except the woman on the jewellery stall. And by then it’s too late.

97 words

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Ooh… that one’s quite chilling, isn’t it?

Today is the last day for a couple of weeks that I shall post a story for the ‘less than 100 words challenge’ as I am off to Swanwick Writers’ Summer School first thing tomorrow and then on to Nottingham for a few days to stay with some writer friends.

It therefore seems quite appropriate that this story should be from a Swanwick writer, Gerald Hornsby. Gerald’s response to the challenge comes in the form of Watching Kettles which you can read below. 

I sit and wait, trying to distract myself. I currently hate my beloved clocks. Loudly ticking away the seconds, minutes, hours.

She’s been late before, of course. Normally, I get a breathless phone call, apologies and excuses tumbling out of the phone like an avalanche. But not tonight.

I flick the switch on the kettle, resisting the urge to glance up at the wall. Tick away, you bastard. I’m going to watch this kettle, waiting for it to boil, and time will stop.

The knocking on the door disturbs my solitude. Through the window, I see the police car.

99 words

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Ooh, another chilling one, wouldn’t you agree? You can find out more about Gerald and his writing by visiting here

 

 

Today’s challenger is writer, Rosemary Noble. Rosemary’s response to the challenge comes in the form of Colours of Grief which you can read below.

Who knew grief came in colours? Red cherries I bought to tempt your failing appetite, a painted smile concealing the devastation in my heart. The pink of a rosebud, your last present, softly kissed, remembering. I ache with lassitude for the inevitable phone call, a yellow helplessness I can’t dispel, along with the white-hot resentment that you’re leaving too soon.

Blackness of the race through flooded streets to stroke your cooling, waxy cheek in the muted orange glow of the curtained room. Cards like snowflakes in summer falling through my letterbox contrast with the multi-coloured spray atop your coffin.

99 words

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Rosemary wrote Colours of Grief after first losing her mum and later her best friend, both in a close space of time. I think we can all associate with this. I know I certainly have similar memories about my late mum and sister. People say time heals but in fact time just helps you get better at putting one foot in front of the other.

Thank you, Rosemary, for sharing this special story.

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If you’d like to find out more about Rosemary and her writing you can visit her at her website. https://rosemarynoble.wordpress.com/

Today’s challenger is writer, Wesley Louis. Wesley has taken up the challenge to write a story titled ‘6/28’ in less than one hundred words which you can read below. 

A pentagram appeared inside my closet. He came into my subconscious.

‘I would like to make you an offer. Call it an investment. Earthly happiness and wealth in exchange for the Keys to your Secret Self.

‘Honestly, I was expecting you but not this early. Not today or tomorrow. Don’t bother rescheduling.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s not logical or a good investment. To gain the whole world but at the end of my journey, lose my soul? No thanks. Not worth it. I sloped back to bed.

‘Curse not in effect.’ Ghostmoon faded.

91 words

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Ooh. That was a bit of a spooky one, don’t you think? 

I was invited over to the Schools History. org website by Dan Moorhouse to answer questions about how I approached writing historical fiction. Why not pop over to his website and check out my interview with him?

To read interview – Click here

 

Today’s challenger to write a story in less than one hundred words comes from writer Helen Ellwood. Helen’s story is Rescue and you can read it below.

I don’t know why we’ve been shut in this cardboard box. My kittens are crying. Someone is carrying us somewhere, without care. I smell water, hear birdsong. The canal? The box is on the ground now. A pause. Heavy footsteps walk away.

It’s dark and I can’t escape. My babies crawl under me. I comfort them, but I’m afraid.

Sunlight is bright as the box is opened. A human girl picks me up and holds me to her heart. Her friend picks up my kittens. The girls are crying, but my heart sings with joy.

We are safe.

98 words

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To find out more about Helen’s writing you can visit her blog here.

 

Andrew Roberts is our latest writer to take up the challenge to write a story in less than one hundred words. You can read Andrew’s story, A Storm is Coming, below.

A storm is coming. I feel it as I drive to work. I don’t feel prepared for it. I don’t think I want to be at work with it looming. That’s all I ever am; at work. Although it doesn’t mean I’m working.

I’ve not got much holiday. Four weeks a year. It just isn’t enough. I’m stuck here. I’m probably about to be fired. I don’t care. I’ve had enough. The storm will make it worse.

Perhaps I should leave. It won’t prepare me for the storm, but I can enjoy myself before it hits.

I turn around.

99 words

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I think we can all feel that storm ahead. What do you think?

You can find out more about Andrew’s writing by visiting his blog here.

Today’s challenger is Stuart Pereira and his response to the challenge to ‘write a story in less than one hundred words’ comes in the form of Perfect Day. I like the sound of that. You can read Perfect Day below.

Dave watches his float for signs of a nibble, an electric blue Damselfly hovers close to the fat frog basking on a lily pad. Long, sticky, frog-tongue flashes. The blue light is extinguished.

The grass snake slithers silently into the shallows, threading through the tall, yellow-flowered Flag Irises. She strikes from behind. It’s over in a heartbeat.

Frog clamped in her jaws, she swims for the shore. A stroke short of the bank the pike pounces, swallows snake and victim in a single gulp.

Three hours later, Dave reels in the pike.

Perfect end to a perfect day.

98 words

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I thought this story had some beautiful language. The rhythm in Stuart’s sentences and wonderful images conjure up relaxation. What do you think?

Steve Barnett is the next writer to take up the challenge to write a story in less than one hundred words. His response comes in the form of Tick, Clonk which may be read below.

The writer’s mind ticked. His tongue clicked. Stretching his fingers, he made motions to type. They lacked direction. He sat comfortably in his bed waiting for inspiration to spring. The door handle clonked.

‘The potatoes are in the oven. I boiled them. They’ll be perfect,’ his girlfriend said. She lay next to him munching Wotsits.

I’ve no inspiration,’ The writer said, as he wrote mundane happenings hoping for inspiration to kiss.

‘How do you spell Wotsits?’ he asked.

She told him, then demanded to get a mention at the end of his story.

Thunder roared. Kelly.

96 words