Writing
My genre of writing is contemporary mystery,and suspense. The stories centre around conflict and secrets that often can be destructive and traumatic once revealed. I like to write about characters who are in situations of crisis and face dramatic upheaval. You could say that although my writing contains tragedy, there is catharsis and rebirth, giving hope for the reader. I love the brisk pace and urgency of short stories and novellas, which is my usual choice of form. Similarly, my poems deal with themes of isolation and identity, reflecting on how nature can serve to heal and provide solace from the busy world in which we live.
Selection of Short Stories:
Previews of two of my short stories are shown below.
The Accident
The mornings were darker now – winter had arrived cruelly, chilling her bones. Glancing out of the porch, she observed a distant silver light on the horizon, penetrating the overwhelming expanse of sky which dominated the space above. Salt and seaweed filtered the air, its sharp sweetness filling her lungs, providing her with the sustenance she needed to face the day. It was only later that she wished she’d stayed in bed, curling into the warmth of the duvet.
But Maria had been taking Bess out first thing each morning since he had left – she went out before breakfast, before coffee, before thinking. It grounded her. Without the morning freshness, the remainder of the day would unravel. She remembered that disorientating spiral of ruin and never wanted to feel it again. She’d promised herself. Now, it had become a ritual. A superstition, you could say. [...]
What’s Good for Us
It’s when I’m driving home from Luke’s that I get the phone call from my husband telling me that Sarah is dying. He is with her, of course. He’s always there, holding her hand. Watching and waiting for her to wake up.
How close I was to ignoring his call. Then what? But I arrive at the hospital just in time to watch our daughter die. I had ten minutes.
The cubicle door seems too small, as if it were a child’s toilet. I’m vulnerable with my legs in view, and when I stand up, my head is exposed. I take some loo roll and wipe my mouth. Red patches blush on each knee, my skirt not quite covering them.
He’s standing in the corridor.
‘Come home, Mel. Please.’ He leans back against the wall; arms behind him as if he were trying to contain them, lest they give away some irreversible emotion. Or action.
‘I can’t, James.’ I say, ‘I won’t.’ [...]
Selection of Poetry:
View 'The Usual Drive Home' and more poems in Layers.
The Usual Drive Home
Now and then, when turning
into our street, the car
swerves like a dog caught on unseen ice.
The smell of petrol hovers, lingering
in the shadow-blue of the pavement.
An echo of
something you somehow can’t
accept.
Those times
not quite awake but
taking on the motions
of life: playing, replaying - trying
to remember the truth.
It prompts you to
take the scenic route
aimlessly exploring the lanes
searching for freedom
but failing to find it.
Instead,
the road
demands
descent.