Lets say hello to a British author who lives in Grimsby. When she is not hunting for castles (not a protected species in England) she is another writer who keeps her desk remarkably clean and tidy. Lets find out more.
Name: Michelle Connor
Please give us a short introductory bio.
I’ve been with her husband for twenty years now. We have three children together, and our youngest has just turned sixteen. She is the princess of the family and has two older brothers.
As well as writing, I love to paint, draw and photography. I have a great intrigue for history and spend many a summers day hunting for castles and ruins to visit. I think this comes through in my writing as my first book set in a medieval setting.
Where in the world are you?
Where in the world would you like to be?
In the middle of a forest, anywhere.
Books – buy links:
Amazon com: http://a.co/aJYQUPH
Amazon co.uk: http://amzn.eu/hC4uPAL
Social Media (Please provide links & handles):
Sasha by Joel Shepherd
Favourite snack when writing:
Cheese is always my favourite snack for any occasion.
What do you write on – computer (what type) – software –pen and pencil – quill and vellum – and tell us why.
I use word on the pc, but I use pen and paper more often before typing it up. The words flow more when I’m not sat at my laptop and away from distractions. Ideas can also come to me when I’m out and about or in the car. (As a passenger, safety first.)
Where do you write? (Can you post a photo?)
What are your current projects?
I’m currently writing a dark fantasy romance without a HEA.
Can you share a little of your current work with us (no more than 1000 words)?
Below a shale-grey sky, a brooding stone wall slashes across the landscape. Sweat beads Aveline’s forehead as her mind drifts in a veil of darkness. The vivid recollection of damp dungeon walls closes in on her, shackling her mind in the past where fear greets her. Like a guiding light, the soft touch of small fingers interlacing with her own drag her back from the dark fissure. Glancing down into the pasty face of her younger brother, she squeezes his hand. Crowded close together for warmth, slick-footed they thread their way through a massive set of wrought iron gates. Bone-white ice crystals lace the ground—left behind as a sparkling gift by the chilling winter’s breath. The sharp wind bites into her frozen cheeks. Reaching up, Aveline pulls the squirrel fur-lined hood tighter against her face.
A deathlike quietude haunts the city’s narrow streets, not a soul moves or murmurs. As if a canvas painted maroon by the violent brush-stroke of a painter’s brush, the cobble-stoned thoroughfare depicts the voiceless memories of violence. Many doors hang from limp hinges and the sunlight reflects off fractured and jagged glass windows. Pears, rotten and trodden lie scattered across the pathway, their sweet, rancid stench permeating the air. A flash of colour out of place against the sparkling ground catches Aveline’s attention. Dropping to her knees, coldness seeps through her leggings as she reaches forward with trembling hands and clutches a hold of a tiny shoe. Rubbing her thumb over the soft egg-blue material she tries to wipe away the speckles of crimson. Chin trembling, she tightens her fist around the discarded object and glances around. On the other side of the street rests a cart tipped on its side, underneath, attached to a matching shoe, a small leg sticks out. Scrambling to her feet, she sprints across the road. Pushing against the spokes of a large wheel, the cart rocks up a fingers width. Feet slipping in a gloop of pear mulch, she loses traction and the vehicle thuds back to the ground. Leaning forward, splinters of wood dig into her flesh and with gritted teeth she pushes again. A pair of masculine hands appear beside her own, and with a loud groan the cart topples over.
Exposed to the elements, the girls bruise mottled limbs twist at odd angles. Her delicate frame, covered in an embroidered fuchsia pink gown, lies unmoving. With cherub cheeks lacking a flush of colour and a face as pale as a harvest moon, Aveline can tell the small child has already been visited by the angel of death. Suffocating with each stuttering breath, an avalanche of anguish bleeds from Aveline’s eyes, distorting her vision. Tilting his upper body to the side, Herveus rests his head against Aveline’s own. “We’ll bury her before we leave. I promise you.”
Why did you write that? What inspired it?
I had this image of the child’s shoe covered in blood before I even came to this scene and wrote it down. It was only when my characters reached the city that I knew where it belonged.
Do you have any advice for other writers?
Write with your heart, but edit with your brain.
Who is your favourite author and what is it that really strikes you about their work?
Joel Shepherd. He writes strong female characters and can fully immerse me in his world whether epic fantasy or sci-fi.
Can you tell us a writerly joke?
There was once a young man who, in his youth, professed his desire to become a great writer.
When asked to define "Great" he said, "I want to write stuff that the whole world will read, stuff that people will react to on a truly emotional level, stuff that will make them scream, cry, howl in pain and anger!"
He now works for Microsoft, writing error messages.
Anything else on your mind?
Thank you for having me.