After reading amazing fiction, I always ask, who writes like this? What drives them? Where do they get their ideas?
Last month, we announced our Writers Mastermind Short Story Contest winners. In this series, I interview each of them to discover the soul behind the story.
Sam is a writer from North-West Leicestershire, in countryside man-made and wild. He is fascinated with the mundane fantastic of the day-to-day, and writes about these in the breathing spaces of his life. He was first published with his story ‘Undertow’ in 13Dark, and after a writing break now has short stories upcoming in Metaphorosis, Pridebook Café, & SpaceCat press’s ‘Aliens and Otherness’ anthology.
He barely goes on social media and has no website, but you can always receive a warm welcome from him by reaching out at samjamesparr at gmail dot com.
1. Tell us a little bit about yourself. Where are you from? Where are you now? What has your life been like?
I’m Sam, and I’m from Leicestershire, UK. I grew up in a world cross-hatched between nature and industry; think pockets of rigorously planned forest squeezed between motorways, warehouses, and industrial estates. I spent my childhood exploring these spaces alongside hundreds of fantasy worlds in fiction and haven’t stopped as an adult. I wrote my first story ten years ago and have been writing on and off since then (though never as much as I’d like)!
My life has been great overall. Not without a few challenges like all of us, but they’ve been so worth it for everything I have experienced.
2. What kind of stories do you like to write?
I absolutely adore reading fantasy, and I can’t help writing mostly fantasy too. In the last six years I have written one story without an overt fantastical element. Why? I don’t really know, but I do know I’m interested in fiction that evokes a sense of otherness in time and place, grounded by relatable characters. So, I try to evoke this in my stories.
3. What sets you apart from other writers in your space?
To be honest, I’m still figuring this out. I’m still trying to find my ‘voice.’ That said, my friends feedback that I often build unique, interesting fantasy worlds. My partner also tells me I have a recurring ‘Sam’ character in most of my fiction: a middle-aged man, usually a little overweight, isolated and uncertain. He has a subterranean anger decades in the building, but also feels things deeply, and can be exceptionally kind. Who is this man? Why does he keep popping into my fiction? I don’t know! But maybe he’s one of my unique selling points…
4. What drives your writing? What do you mean to accomplish with your stories?
I’m not sure I have an answer for this! I’m driven to write perhaps to give back something to the rich world of fantasy and fiction I have drank from all my life. And to get the colours out of my head, for at least a while. But honestly (like many of us I suspect), I don’t know. I just know that, if I haven’t written for a couple of months, I start getting the urge to create again.
I’m a careers advisor as a day job, and with that head on, I wonder if part of the reason a lot of us write is because the role becomes embedded in our imaginations from a young age. Writing as an occupation is very visible to us even as toddlers (who isn’t read stories as children?). When you’re seven, you also find it far easier to imagine what a writer’s life is like compared to, say, an accountant’s. It’s also far more appealing, especially as, when we’re children, creativity often comes so easily to us (was it Ursula Le Guin who said the ‘the artist is the child who survived?’).
So, perhaps what drives my writing deep down is that childhood identification with this fascinating occupation.
I don’t have any specific defined goals for what I hope to accomplish in my writing, but I always want to build cool worlds, and ultimately entertain the reader and myself. I also want to create characters that are complex, mysterious, and emotive.
5. Who are your favorite writers and books? What are your other creative influences?
Ah Christa, so many good ones! Recently my top three favourites from the past year’s reading would be Piranesi by Susanna Clarke, Annihilation by Jeff Vandermeer, and the Wolf Hall trilogy by Hilary Mantel. They all have a majestic sense of time and place, grounded through a unique character. Each work is something you feel could only be the product of a playful, deeply introspective imagination, paired with some major writing skill.
In terms of wider influences, I am fed by everything: TV, video games, art, history. However, I particularly find myself influenced by locations. For example, I have always been a little captivated by the idea of transitory spaces like service stations, or the middle of a road. Something about their nature appeals to me; they are nondescript, unremarkable, powerfully mundane, and uniquely of this modern moment (I find them quite relatable). The feelings they evoked in me is what I channeled while writing The Knowable Failures.
6. Tell us about your writing space. When and where do you write? Do you work in silence? Or music?
I’m a sucker for a nice café. I particularly like big cafes, where I can feel anonymous, a little like ShorelessSea in the story.
Apart from that, my most popular writing spot is likely at my desk in our spare room. It overlooks our garden, and a host of magnificent birds.
I sometimes write with classical music, but anything with words distracts me too much!
7. What is your favorite thing to do when you are not writing?
I love lots of activities, but I think the crown would have to go to a pleasure that is wonderfully simple: reading/watching something cool, while eating good food. It’s a simple pleasure, but we all have access to it every day, and that’s awesome.
8. Who is your current artistic muse?
I don’t really have a ‘muse’ in the general sense. But right now I’m enjoying reading various texts on history and mythology, particularly from religious traditions like Buddhism. The worlds they reveal are so grand, rich with meaning and image, in a way that feels fresh and exciting to me.
9. Why do you think it’s important to write fiction?
To go back to Ursula Le Guin, in her essays she writes about how the purpose of art should fundamentally be to ‘entertain and delight you’. I think there’s a lot more reasons that fiction is important, but this one is enough for me. I am entertained and delighted by writing (though that’s not to say I find it easy) and I hope my readers can be too.
10. Who would be the best writer, alive or dead, to tell the story of your life?
Hmmm. I think I’ll nominate my good friend and writer Joseph Sale. He’s a stunning writer of fantasy, horror, and epic poetry, and I enjoy the idea of him turning my life into an epic tale in 33 cantos.
11. What are you working on right now?
I’m currently editing the only non-fantasy story I have written for six years; a short story about grief and pigeons. Alongside that, I’m also slowly working my way through a high fantasy novella set in a world loosely inspired by feudal Japan, where a warrior’s reputation gives them literal magic powers. Progress is slow as my mental/physical health hasn’t been as tip-top as normal over the past few months, but the world is starting to take weight now. It’s the longest thing I’ve written (if I finish it) and I’m excited to see where it goes.
*****
Thanks to Samuel Parr for letting us into his world. Look forward to interviews with other winners in the coming weeks.
It’s time for the second annual Writers’ Mastermind Read Your Story Mash-Up Challenge!
What is it?
Each attending writer will read up to 5 minutes of their work on video. It can be a published work or an excerpt of a work-in-progress. Flash fiction, short stories, chapters of novels of any genre are all welcome (please nothing extremely graphic).
Recorded readings will be done on the live Mastermind Mash-Up Zoom call or can be pre-recorded by the author and sent in to be added to the Mash-Up video.
Why do it?
Video is the best way to connect with your audience. They can both see and hear you and get to know your work on an intimate level.
Learning to read to your audience will prepare you for future publicity events (social media lives, book signings, etc.)
We know many authors feel uncomfortable putting themselves out there—not just on video, but in any form. By accepting this challenge with us, you will break through resistance when it comes to promoting and sharing your work.
The mash-up will shared on our website, social media, and mailing list. It will also be advertised, giving you and your writing free exposure and opening you up to new readers, friends, and followers.
This is a great opportunity to have some fun, maybe step out of your comfort zone, and become part of a collaborative project with all the writers in the community.
When is it?
There are two options:
Wednesday April 13th 11:00 AM EST
Saturday April 23rd 11:00 AM EST
Tips On Choosing Your Excerpt
5 minutes of reading is approximately 1,000 words
Do a practice reading beforehand to time yourself
Your excerpt can be slightly under or over 5 minutes so you can end the reading in a good spot
What happens when 15 authors from 8 countries who write in various genres get together to create one short story?
We are proud to share our first ever Story Relay in the Writers Mastermind! The mission of the Story Relay is to create a fun collaboration in which each author has the freedom to take the story wherever they want it to go.
Nothing showcases our authors’ unique voices better than to have them contrasted against one another. The story took delightful and suspenseful turns. You will see how the characters developed and how the theme—a writer fighting against the naysayers and his own self-doubt—deepened, resulting in an inspiring, transcendental ending.
And now, we are pleased to present, From the Ashes, the story of Windles the writer and his pet chinchilla, Spanks. It’s a story most writers can relate to. We hope you enjoy it!
Windles was a horrible poet, the worst ever. The town even presented him a plaque that officially named him as such. Somehow, he couldn’t throw it away. It was the only award he’d ever gotten. He kept in covered with a red rain jacket in the back of his armoire. Sometimes he slipped his hand underneath to trace the etching of his name with his fingertips and imagine the title said that he was the greatest.
Even though people fled at the mention of his writing, he wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t, and compulsively scribbled poetry in a little, worn notebook several times a day. This he did in secret. It would be a scandal—a crime, some neighbors said— for The Worst Poet ever to keep bringing his ghastly verse into the world. So Windles kept this source of shame hidden in his sock drawer, like a landmine that was still active long after the enemy was defeated, one that might explode an innocent passerby decades later.
As if someone might ever find and read it, he told his pet chinchilla, Spanks. No one had visited him since his mom died.
Soon, his sock drawer became too small to deal with all his writings, its small space soon vomiting countless pages of small, scribbled lines of verbal diarrhea. Windles was not only writing his poetry on his alone time, he soon found himself writing more and more in the day to the point his diatribe on the page became his obsession. From morning till night, all he could think of were the words he would put on the page.
One night, he dreamed that ink was in his veins and his fingers had turned into pen and pencil, while he spat paper left and right. The more he wrote, the more he needed to write and the more he did so. Eventually, his little notebooks not only filled his sock drawer, but they also filled every surface in his bedroom. From the top of his nightstand to his wardrobe, to any surface he could find, and piles of small notebooks started to stack up even on the floor. As time went on, the smell of paper and ink-filled his nose and became a smell that would bring him comfort and joy. Soon, even the very noise in his bedroom had changed, the sounds being absorbed by the mounting stacks of paper that were all over the place. But soon, the comforting smell of paper and ink became a source of anxiety for poor Windles. Soon, his cozy dreams of creative writing started to take a hold of his very soul and created nightmares that would start to choke him in his sleep. It all started when…
The fire alarm went off. Windles awoke coughing. The thin light of the streetlamp outside was nothing more than a smudge of across his stinging eyes. His senses seemed to be floating around his head like the thick smoke, diffused and insensible. More raking coughs brought him to his knees and to air. There was a siren outside coming closer and banging at his front door, and suddenly it hit him. His house was on fire. He struggled to his feet and almost faltered back to a knee as his head swooned.
The fire was licking through the jamb of his bedroom door, crawling up the ceiling, across the walls and feeding on the piles of paper staked there. The flames swelled, devouring every word he’d ever written. As he flung open his desk draw, it came free in his hand, throwing him on his backside and showering the room in pages of floating stanzas.
The heat was unbearable. He could smell the hairs on his arms singing. Consciousness was leaving him as his words fell about him. He would die among them, a poet immolated by his own art. It would be perhaps the most artistic thing he’d ever done.
But then an axe smashed through the glass of his window.
Windles kept his eyes barely open. The axe landed near his head, cutting the wooden floor. The flames behind Windles reflected on its smooth surface.
He made an effort to focus on the window when a black shape jumped into his bedroom, surrounded by a halo of smoke and death. It crept towards him and crouched by his side.
Windles fell back to the floor, his eyes wide open as he suppressed his urge to cough.
“Who…who are you?” He tried to guess the face behind the black hood. However, only a dark hole seemed to pull him into unconsciousness.
The next thing he sensed was something lifting his whole body and floating out of the thick, hopeless ambience. That was all he needed to fall into the veils of slumber.
**********
A cool chill ran through his body. Windles opened his eyes and met the starry night sky above him. The crackle of burning wood and the scent of cedar filled the space. Windles sat straight, massaging his neck. A cough came out of his chest, making him spit dark mucus.
“Rest again. You need it.”
Windles looked for the voice which had just spoken when he saw the dark shape behind the campfire flames.
It lingered to him, and Windles tried to stand up, but his knees gave him away. The shape sat beside him and stretched a gloved hand to his head, but Windles jerked back, raising his arm.
“Don’t touch me!”
“No need to fear, Windles. We found you, finally.”
The voice rang softly in Windles head. Suddenly, a pair of stars shone in the faceless being.
“Who are you?” He asked in a whispered.
He watched the shape freeing its hands from the gloves and was shocked at the glowing skin. Then, it took off the hood, unleashing a long silver hair. And the face… Windles was sure that face had robbed the moonlight from the skies. It was ageless and filled with wisdom, innocence, beauty, and something else.
“Your poems contain immense power. Your creative energy has the clarity and strength of the purest diamonds.”
Windles couldn’t take his eyes off the starman’s face. He was sure he saw galaxies swirling just below the skin. The words ignited the dying embers of ego within him that longed for praise, and he realized that he had always known that he was a genius waiting to be discovered. That was why he hadn’t quit. Brilliance was never recognized by the filth it emerged from.
“You are so important, Windles, which is why we’ve searched for you. Unfortunately, we’re not the only ones. There are others who wish you harm, who want to abuse your gift for their own twisted purposes or, like the ones who set fire to your home, who wish you dead.”
Fear threatened to overwhelm Windles, but anger rushed in and propped up his quivering spirit. He always knew he had enemies. How dare they try to kill him and deprive the world of his greatness? He bared his teeth.
“Who are they?”
The starman shook his head, the long tendrils of his silver hair floating around him as if wafted by an ocean swell.
“They’re not important. All that matters is that we’ve found you and you’re safe. I’ll explain everything when we’re back with my people.”
“Step away from the poet.”
The starman whipped his head in the direction of the growly voice, and for a moment his eyes changed from stars to black holes. Dark shapes crept out of the night, eyes glinting in the firelight from multiple creatures, and Windles covered his nose to block the strong animal odor that assailed him.
A tiny figure scampered into the ambit of the campfire, its soot blackened fur not hiding its identity.
They came uttering a nonsense of syllables from mouths more akin to wounds. They had no features to speak of, only a semblance of human form, a vague echo of pride reduced to simian crawling. Whereas Windles’ strange silver-haired saviour had flesh of starlight, theirs was of night itself, though only an unobservant poet would think of the night as purely black. Within the void there were many colours, an etheric consortium of shades, each fractionally different from the last: midnight azures, abyssal purples, and deepest reds the hue of hearts-blood. Gazing too long could disturb the mind. Windles already felt them pulling his brain apart.
Spanks barked and whined, alternating between ferocious courage and abject dread. The starman regarded the intruders with cold focus.
“Begone,” the starman said. “He is mine.”
“Step away,” they hissed as one. Their meaning was hard to grasp, drowned out by other discordant noise: chittering, jabbering, sounds like pincers snipping. It was as though sense and form did not come easily to them. Chaos was their natural state. “We will free him, for we are without limitations…”
Windles knew, then, the choice he faced. It was all about the poetry, and perhaps it always had been. Hadn’t the starman said as much? But now, the appearance of this antithesis confirmed it. Windles stood upon a precipice, but unlike a suicidally inclined man at the end of their tether, it was not so clear as to whether falling would lead to death or transformation.
He thought he was content to go with the starman, the clear choice. But at the last moment, something within him changed his mind.
What proof did he really have that the starman was good and the other creatures were bad? He liked that the starman seemed more relatable, more human, but that wasn’t a reason to assume he was good.
All his life, Windles had been producing poetry he was rather fond of, but the rest of the world judged the worst. Maybe his instincts weren’t the best judge of character.
After a moment of shock, he looked at the starman and then the leaders of the other group. He saw both sides were as surprised as he was by the question. No one seemed to know what to say.
“What do you want of me?” Windles asked of the new arrivals.
He already knew what the starman thought. At least a little of it.
“We want to set you free,” the creatures said in their weird, synchronized voice. “You can bring sense to our existence.”
“They want to use you,” the starman interrupted.
“Don’t you?” Windles countered. “You said my poems contained power. What do you mean? What kind of power and why do you want it?”
“You will help my people build new worlds,” the starman said.
That feeling of power and strength flowed through Windles again as the starman stared him.
It was odd how his emotions were suddenly all over the place. Windles knew he was a poet and generally more emotional than other men, but even he wasn’t usually this unsettled.
Maybe the starman had some means of controlling his emotions. Windles had noticed his emotions going wild just before the other creatures arrived.
Which side should he trust? Did he have any other options?
Was this even real? Maybe this was all some twisted nightmare. The fire, the axe, this strange place, these strange creatures and . . . the Starman. His chest heaved and fell slowly, the rise and fall of his belly negligible to the eye. He closed his eyes and froze. Perhaps when they opened this illusion would shatter like some wicked spell cast upon him by those who have disdained his life’s work. Those wretched wastes of flesh who knew no better than to slander his life’s work. Years of blood sweat, and tears were infused into every word. Each scribbled character birthed with the anguish, torment, and fear of being read or heard.
One…. Two…. he counted slowly, his lips not parting, his body trembling like a leaf in a mild breeze. No matter what, this delusion must shatter when he opens his eyes, none of this can be real. His flesh prickled as all the hairs across his body bristled. It was quiet but he could feel the silent gazes probing him. They were penetrating eyes that bore into his flesh, burrowing into his soul like a worm in soil, digging for an answer to the spectacle before them.
Nineteen, twenty… his count became hurried and his breathing rapid. With the rise and subsequent fall of his chest was the visible bulge of his belly slamming against his shirt as if it would burst through. His fists clenched and nostrils flared. Large beads of perspiration dotted his brow. Once he reached fifty, he would open his eyes, and all of this would be over.
His eyelids smashed against his pupils as the foul stench of the beasts crinkled his nose as they slowly approached perplexed by this scene before them. To his side the soft pitter patter of the Starman’s feet could be heard. His head began to slowly wag.
Windle’s hands continued to tremble, the sweat dripping from his bony fingers as he tried to push away from the energy of the entities approaching him. His senses magnified with each beating of his heart. How was the sound so loud? He had never heard his own heartbeat like that before. Still, he could not open his eyes or finish the counting. Not only did he fear the entities, but he had forgotten about the pain in his body, the aftermath of the fire. Did he get out in time? What really happened? A wave of heat consumed him as if some invisible flame was held there against his skin. Was this death? Was he dying?
“Just finish counting. This would all be over soon,” he said to himself, forcing harsh breaths through clenched teeth. His entire body was shaking now.
“Stop!” he shouted.
It was becoming harder to keep his eyes shut. The sound of his heartbeat got louder.
“Windles! Windles, are you alright?”
The pleasantness of the voice startled his eyes open as bright lights shone down and burned his skin. Someone whistled as thunderous applause filled his ears. The room spun as he lay there, wherever there was, drowning in his own sweat.
“Windles?”
The room was a blur, but he would recognize that voice anywhere. His secret crush and host of the poetry contest towered over him. The warmth of her smile, a conduit for happiness, as if the universe chose her to channel its positivity through to him. She looked down at him, her silver curls dangled as if reaching out for him. That glowing skin of hers and that beautiful face, the one that robbed the moonlight from the skies.
Windles could smell lavender, like the fields behind his home with their vivid purple hues and tall, slender stems peeking through the grass exuding a fine fragrance in early summer. The scent was hampered now by the relentless stench of smoke that wouldn’t leave his nostrils. He opened his eyes to expect a bunch of flowers, a mistake in room number he was sure, as he had no one to send him anything. He caught his breath as he glanced at the chair next to his bed. It was none other than Lilith, the most beautiful woman he ever set eyes one. Her silver hair framing perfect features, her signature lavender essential oil perfuming his room. The neighbor he had spied on countless times but was too self-conscious to speak with was seated right next to him. Her gaze was down into her hands. Windles tried to sit up to see what she held.
Her gaze met his, “you’re awake. I have something for you.”
She rose from the chair and placed a small bundle into his lap adding, “Your chinchilla was roaming about in the street. I managed to collect him. I thought he might help you get better.”
Windle felt a knot form in his throat. He couldn’t remember the last time someone said a kind word to him let alone perform a gracious gesture.
“Spanks! Thank you, he’s alive. He’s all I have left. My writings, my poems are all gone.”
She looked at him with pity, “I’m sure you can write some more. The firemen said your flat was overflowing. Take care of yourself.”
With that, she left. Windle reached for the cabinet beside his bed. For once, luck was with him as he found a pencil and paper. He wrote with a fervor. Words flowed. When exhaustion hit, he put the pencil down, adjusted Spanks in the cradle of his arm and fell fast asleep.
As he slept, a nurse came in to check his vitals. Glancing down at his note pad, she read his words with abandon. Her husband, an editor of a prestigious literary magazine, would find his poetry unique, eloquent, inspired. She took a quick photo of the pages and sent a text …
Windles was rudely awakened by a sharp pain in his hand. His eyes popped open, and he discovered Spanks had chomped down on his flesh.
“Ouch! Some friend you are,” he said bitterly and shoved his chinchilla away.
He glanced out the window and saw night had fallen. He must have been asleep for hours, but he was still tired and decided to close his eyes once more. No sooner had he done that, Spanks bit him again. He yelped and shook his hand. “Why you-”
“Hello Windles.”
He looked up in alarm and saw a large figure in the doorway, blotting out the light from the hallway. “Wh-who are you?”
“I apologize if I startled you. My name is Smith, and I’m the editor of Wowie! Magazine. We publish short stories, poetry, and cooking recipes. My wife is a nurse here and she sent me a picture of your work. I had to meet you as soon as possible! Your words, Windles, they sent shivers down my spine and made my liver quiver!”
“What?” Windles stared at him with a blank expression.
“What I’m trying to say is, I want to publish your work. Such brilliance only comes along once in a generation! What do you say?” Smith held out a meaty hand and waited.
Windles hesitated. This is what he always wanted, but it was happening so fast. “This sounds amazing, but I need to clear my head a bit first.” He slowly stood and shuffled to the window and lifted it. A cool, refreshing breeze wafted in. But then the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The breeze carried a familiar animal odor, and it was getting stronger by the second.
Windles stumbled away from the window. “No, it couldn’t be. That wasn’t real…”
The room fell away. The window now a gaping hole into the abyss. He grasped towards a non-existent windowsill to regain his balance. His nostrils contracting at the corrosive strength of the alien scent. This had to be death.
All around him words spun in tornados of text. The nightmare played out; he was glued to a floor that no longer existed. His clothes, his bed, the building all slid into a tsunami of flames and ash.
Something brushed against his ankle. The floor fell away as Spanks, his only friend, clawed at his naked thigh. He felt no pain as Spanks scraped away the flesh, his ivory frame exposed to the light.
He looked down at his hands, the flesh peeled, leaving bone scorched to black. They morphed into sticks of charcoal, the tools of his art. The irony. His mouth sighed unheard words into the dark skies beyond the abyss.
A light in the distance. The light. His mother had spoken of white light, was she beyond its source? Or was this the abduction he had spoken on in his poetry. They had called him a fool in a foil hat. Been ashamed of his obsession with UFOs.
Was this another world calling him, willing to embrace his art as no other?
As words fell from the screen, as letters faded from notepaper over time, his body was failing him. Disintegrating before his own eyes. His frame falling away, one bone at a time.
He was an observer to his resurrection. His fingers reached up to the stars, the light now a beam of heat and white noise. He felt nothing and was overcome with agony. He could think of no words and couldn’t stop the rolodex of metaphor and haiku washing through his absent mind. But …
But the beam of heat and white noise reached down and took him away. Just like that, Windles felt his heart swelling with regret because he hadn’t believed in a higher power like his mother once had. He knew his time was short, and if he were to be a poet, he would be a poet for the right reasons. That’s what the glimmering man was trying to tell him the first time they met. However, it wasn’t up to Windles to decide anymore.
“Validation,” the white noise said. “This was your heart’s desire.”
Windles had been blinded by his years of languishing, alone, with nothing but his chinchilla to keep him company. He realized how crazy it had driven him. Seeking validation brought him to the edge. Windles had gone to unthinkable lengths just to be told, “I see you.”
Then the beam of heat showed him his life story. It felt like an eternity. Windles was at a loss for words when he saw himself that fateful night in his office, holding the lighter in his hands. Then he heard the voice of a woman he couldn’t see. “Please help my son. Don’t let him ruin his gift. Save him.”
At that moment, nothing else mattered. Windles was sorry. The memories of his mother flooded his mind, and he felt a sharp burn in his chest, like electricity. Only it was electricity …
Windles woke up on the hospital room floor with sheets on his chest and a woman holding a defibrillator above his face saying, “We got you back, at last. You collapsed because of a cardiac arrest, sir.”
Why the second chance? Was he really forgiven for what he tried to do? Windles pondered the questions repeatedly. He knew what he had to do.
Windles knew exactly what he had to do. He must write. Mrs. Smith, the kind nurse who sent his poetry to her magazine-publisher husband, also dropped off a few new notebooks and a package of pens. As soon as he broke the plastic, he began to write and quickly filled its pages.
On the third day of his stay in hospital, the doctor advised Windles that his health had improved, and he could now return home. He was thrilled with the news, but he had no home to return to. Where would he go?
Just as he was ready to leave, the Starman entered his room and said, “We are sorry for your loss and have arranged a hotel for you and Spanks until you can get back on your feet. The firemen will allow you now to check the grounds in case you can recover something.”
Excited, Windles grabbed Spanks, who would be good at detecting any of his belongings. But when they arrived at his house, his heart fell at seeing the structure on the ground. He decided to check the area in case he could find something to salvage.
While shuffling around the place, his foot knocked against what he believed was his armoire. He kicked the burnt wooden pieces and parts of the red rain jacket appeared. Windles tried to catch his breath when he considered what might have survived the fire.
Putting down his hand, he brushed away the red rain jacket, and lo and behold, the plaque naming him the worst poet ever had survived. However, his world had changed since that devastating fire where he lost all his poems. He was now a published poet, and the plaque no longer held any value, but he would keep it to remind him of the past.
Holding a piece of his past in his hands, Windles looked to the east where the sky held rain clouds a deep gray, a darkening of the horizon, threatening rain, but in his hands, he held a kind of sun with which his world could revolve if only he’d allow it. He had a future despite his reckless endangerment of himself and his pet. He once cared what the naysayers spoke into existence for him. No more. His words had power. He no longer needed others to tell him that.
Feeling as if the fire he’d wrought released the truth from its ashes, he understood he was always somebody. Validation need no longer be given and his worth relied solely upon his own counsel.
He turned to face the Starman, understanding that this figure of poise and his most recent object of fear, was no dream, the creatures from what he once thought of as a nightmare were also real. He had a choice to make, he thought, as he let go of the past, allowing the plaque to fall at his feet. In that moment, he wished he could ground the plaque into ashes as so much of his world had turned into, but it had survived for a reason.
“I know who I am now,” Windles said, staring into the Starman’s luminous eyes. “You and the monsters of my soul are no longer needed on this plain of existence. I release you. I have chosen to live. I have chosen to become, and I will fare well in this decision.”
“We will watch and see if you fare so well,” the Starman said, and it sounded like a threat, but Windles wasn’t concerned. He had seen the abyss and knew now where he belonged. He would take the room because he needed it, but he would not falter this time around. He would write as if he had no other choice, because he didn’t.
He hadn’t imagined the smell of lavender either, he thought, as he looked to the western corner of the land and saw the house of his neighbor in the distance. She had come to me, he thought, bringing me Spanks. As he walked to the waiting car, where a living part of his psyche stood holding the door open for him, he vowed to send her flowers. Maybe there was promise there too, he thought. Maybe like his poetry held power, so did his care for Lilith. Life was good, he thought, as he took another look across the landscape of his yesterdays and climbed into the car to head into his future as a true writer, and finally, an author.
Every other Monday, we introduce you to a writer from the Writers’ Mastermind. Today we are excited to present Sara Cristia H.J.. She is a storyteller and freelance writer who was born in Venezuela and lives in Lebanon.
Sara writes historical and contemporary dramas with touches of surrealism, the paranormal, and fantasy. She also creates blog content for websites and is now in the editing process of her first fiction novel.
You have seen her reading an excerpt of her story, The Witch’s Amulet, in the Writers Mastermind Mash Up. Learn more about her rich Caribbean/Mediterranean life and her dreams for the future.
Tell us a bit of yourself. Where are you from? Where are you now? What has your life been like?
My background is a mix of Caribbean and Mediterranean. I was born in Venezuela to Lebanese parents who raised my siblings and me there for the first ten years of my life. Then, my father thought it would be best for us to grow among our relatives and culture. So we moved to Lebanon, where my interest in historical, religious, and esoteric topics caught my genuine interest.
Afterward, we were constantly moving or traveling from Lebanon to Venezuela and vice versa. This caused me some gaps in the three languages I know. Though I manage them fluently, except for Arabic, which I know at a medium level, I still needed to improve my writing skills. I realized that the only way to do so was by reading.
Today, I live in Lebanon with my husband, three lovely and smart daughters, and my spoiled mini-toy poodle, Lassie. Life has been a bit of a challenge in every aspect, and I still don’t feel like settling here for a long time. Yet, what helps me to carry on with the tedious routine is my constant learning. I’m so grateful for the online education to find something new to upgrade my skills.
My life has been a mixture of adventure, freedom, adaptations, drawbacks, up-scaling, self-growth, and excitement with a bit of the Caribbean warmth and the traditional Mediterranean freshness. I consider life a journey that we have to travel as positively and thrilled as possible, taking the challenges and lessons for our benefit and enjoying every detail of it.
What kind of stories do you write?
I write historical and contemporary romantic dramas. I’m editing my first novel, which is a stand-alone but also the first in a series. The story revolves around two lovers who find each other in the late Austro-Hungarian Empire, but a fatal incident and mysterious events separate them. They’ll meet, however, in another lifetime where sharper challenges will dare them to stay together. I’ll treat diverse topics in this series, such as emotional abuse, anxiety, reincarnation, Latin American corruption, etc.
I also write short stories with bits of surrealism, paranormal, and real-life events.
More recently, I decided to give my creative writing a break while exploring the objective world of freelance writing. I must say I am most satisfied since I consider myself a logic-thinker, and I love researching and writing about various topics that defy my intellect and skills.
What sets you apart from other writers in your space?
Each writer has their unique spark. I think what sets me apart from other fellow writers is that I like to treat subtly real-life facts and conditions through fantasy and fiction.
My perseverance in upgrading my writing skills, despite all the educational challenges I had when I was younger, and consistency are also keys to my writing. I don’t like the words “give up,” so I try to do my best to find my way and show others that if I can do it, they certainly can, too.
Writing fiction not only liberates our creativity but also provides us with endless ways to see and treat life’s events. We can entertain, enlighten, and guide people through our stories and make them reflect on the different facets of life.
Sara Cristia H.J.
What drives your writing? What do you mean to accomplish with your stories?
We can achieve so much through the written word. You can say the world’s most significant truths through the beautiful lies of fiction and state life’s facts through well-crafted and researched articles. You can influence a generation with your opinion and stories, soothe the depressed, and guide the one who seeks the light. This and more is what I want to accomplish with my writings.
Who are your favorite writers and books? What are your other creative influences?
I have a bunch of favorite writers and books that have influenced my writing. Among those I most enjoyed reading and learning from are: The Lord of the Rings books; Pachinko, by Lee Min Jin; almost every Jane Austen’s book and Lara Temple’s too; The Thorn Birds; Three Daughters of Eve, by Elif Shafak; and books of Paulo Coelho and Gibran Khalil Gibran.
Some of my favorite non-fiction books are: You Can Heal Your Life, by Louise Hay; the Rich Dad, Poor Dad series, by Robert Kiyosaki; The Giant Within, by Tony Robins; Think and Grow Rich, by Napoleon Hill. I also love Dan Brown’s style.
There are certainly more, especially among indie books, such as Through Her Eyes, by Sophie Fahy; Murder at MacBeth, by Samantha Goodwin; The Seven Lives of Grace, by Elena Shelest; That Truthful Place, by Patty Lesser; The Last Nautch Girl, by C. Phillip; Lilia, by Linda Ganzini; Seeker of Time series by, J. M. Buckler; and Behold the Dawn, by K. M. Weiland. Now, I look forward to exploring more indie jewels, like those of Joe Sale, Christa Wojciechowski, Clennell Anthony, and Bia Bella Baker.
Do you write in silence? Background noise? Or music? What kind?
It depends on the scene’s mood. If it’s an action or mental health issue, you will find me writing with some metallic or gothic rock in the background, such as Poets of the Fall, Nightwish, Disturbed, or Within Temptation. If I’m writing a rough-love scene, I’ll listen to Lady Gaga, Allan Walker, or Demi Lovato. Otherwise, I’ll be listening to softer and more classic melodies, like Beethoven, Chopin, BrunuhVille, Sade, Jazz music with rain, or coffee shop background sounds (my favorite when I want to chill out), etc.
As you see, my music list is as eclectic as my readings.
What is your favorite thing to do when you are not writing?
I think I don’t have that much free time. When I’m not writing or researching, I’m with my girls, helping them with their studies or watching a movie together. I have to attend to my house chores and my online learning. But I would much prefer to have a fixed time to go for a walk or hiking. I also love gardening and reading, of course.
Who is your current celebrity crush?
Celebrity crush? Not now, lol! But when I was younger, I liked Johnathan Brandis, the first time when I watched The NeverEnding Story and then SeaQuest DSV.
I also loved Gerard Butler’s role in The Phantom of the Opera.
Why do you think it’s important to write fiction?
Writing fiction not only liberates our creativity but also provides us with endless ways to see and treat life’s events. We can entertain, enlighten, and guide people through our stories and make them reflect on the different facets of life. Storytelling is such a powerful tool to plant the seed for a better future.
Who would be the best writer, alive or dead, to tell the story of your life?
I have never thought of this, but I think I’d like Paulo Coelho to write the story of my life for his magical and surrealistic style and his vast exploration of the Mediterranean and South American lifestyles.
What are you working on right now?
My creative/fiction writing is somehow slow-paced now because I’m more dedicated to my freelance writing and internship at the Digital Nomad Writing Club. However, I always spare some time for my editing, mainly because my characters don’t give me peace of mind.
Besides, I’m building my portfolio with a variety of topics, though I’m niching down to more specific themes on B2B strategies, emotional and mental wellness, self-growth, and productivity. I’m also completing my specialization in SEO which will serve my blogging skills greatly.
Thank you for sharing your fascinating writing life with us, Sara!
Do you feel stuck and unsure as a writer? Are you not getting acceptances, not making sales, not writing to your full potential? How can you break through the self-doubt and noise to start carving out your unique space in the world of fiction?
Ross Jeffery is joining us for a Live ZOOM chat this Thursday to talk about his experience.
Ross is the Executive Director of STORGY literary magazine and its Head of Books. He is also the Bram Stoker Award Nominated Author of Tome, Juniper, and Tethered.
It’s hard to believe that Ross had given up on writing for seven years. Yes, 7 years! Now he is exploding in the dark fiction scene, and he is going to join us on Zoom to talk about how to break through as a writer.
What You’ll Learn – How to Break Through as a Writer with Ross Jeffery
Why Ross gave up writing for so long and what made him start again
What drives his dark, disturbing stories
The breakthrough moment in his writing career that got his momentum going
How writers can approach other authors for blurbs
How writers can position themselves to be nominated for awards
Ross’ advice for all those writers who have given up, are thinking of given up, or haven’t even started
Every other Monday, we introduce you to a writer from the Writers’ Mastermind. Today we are excited to present Christie Adams. She is a storyteller, blogger, podcaster and videographer who writes short stories, children’s books, mysteries, thrillers, YA novels, and even erotica.
Learn how Christie left the rat race to pursue a life she loves and why she says that mid-life is anything but a crisis.
1. Tell us a little bit about yourself. Where are you from? Where are you now? What has your life been like?
I’m a Yorkshire woman, over 50, rebellious grandmother and global online entrepreneur. Storyteller, blogger, podcaster, videographer, motivational and creativity coach, eco advocate, travel addict (on hold right now) and multi-passionate ‘squirrel.’
Whilst bringing up my family, as a single mum, and working full time, I completed a BA Hons in Literature. I didn’t want to settle for something I knew wouldn’t be fulfilling or rewarding, but leaving the rat race was a hard decision. Since age 13 I’d always had a pay slip, a regular income. There’s been tears, doubts, rebellion even anger. I’ve come out the other side and I’ve never been happier!
History… In my teens… left home, joined the army and then left again to start buying my first home. I worked two jobs, and spent Saturday nights from 2am until 8am at the cinema watching Kung Fu films. In my 20s… worked hard, partied hard – well maybe a little. Moved from my first apartment to a house with a garden and had no idea what I wanted to do when I grew up. In my 30s… moved house again, became a single parent to my awesome daughter. Adopted a dog, a big dog! Faced redundancy, a few times, got promoted, and still didn’t know what I wanted to do when I grew up. Volunteered for the YHA, painted hostels, worked with teenagers. I read to nursery children each week. My first official taste of giving back in the community. Promotion and redundancy and led to numerous pivots in direction. In my 40s… realised my career wasn’t what I wanted to do ‘when I grew up’ so I went back into education, still working full time to afford the fees. After 6 years of deadlines and assignments I completed my Bachelor of Arts in Literature, oh and trained as a swimming teacher. Adopted a dog, a different loopy dog, and volunteered as a mentor for teenagers and students. In my 50s… having gone through yet more pivots and changes. I got married. Became a grandmother. Moved to another town, co-incidentally ending up back where I was born. I was yet again offered a change in role. You may notice a theme here! This time I decided to take the redundancy offer. I took a gap year, travelled, wrote fiction and had family time. Some of my life’s changes were my choice, some certainly came out of the blue and were well beyond my control. I’ve been there, done it, acquired quite a few t-shirts but I’ll tell you now it certainly wasn’t all plain sailing. Sometimes it was downright scary. Anyway, I’m super proud to tell you I’ve learned to embrace change and now move forward with optimism and confidence. In my 60s… Watch this space!
I write short stories, children’s books, mystery, thriller and YA novels, and even erotica.
3. What sets you apart from other writers in your space?
I believe passionately that everyone should use their voice. Mine is no better than another but is unique. We bring our own experiences, culture, perceptions, imagination and opinions to all our work. The more I write, the more I’m confident to allow my own voice be heard.
4. What drives your writing? What do you mean to accomplish with your stories?
My ‘Why’ is to support my family. I’d love to buy my daughter a home, it’s so difficult to get on the property ladder in the UK. I have always been a book addict, so writing them was a natural development.
My grand-babies love being part of the process too, and I’m thrilled to have instilled a love of books in them too. If I get a chance to mention my beloved Yorkshire I will. So far, I’ve written ‘escapism’ books to allow people to enjoy a fictional world. I am working on various non-fiction books.
My book ‘Well Really, Fairy Rose, by Ruby and Angelica Brave’ was the most ‘important’ book for me on a personal level. I want all children to see themselves in books. I commissioned an artist to base the main character on photographs of my mixed-race grandbaby. Diversity in books is improving but still a long way to go. WRFR encourages care for the planet and nature without being ‘preachy.’
5. Who are you favourite writers and books? What are your other creative influences?
I studied literature and over the years have read so many I can’t pick one favourite. I do love The Color Purple, Jane Eyre and other classics.
The recent books that have blown my mind are Sapiens and Homo Deus by Yuval Noah Harari. I will at some point read his others, but they are truly life changing.
Peter James writes great detective novels. I’ve just discovered Gregg Hurwitz who is a genius at page-turning thrillers. Stieg Larsson books are dark but inspire me to embrace a darker story.
6. Do you write in silence? Background noise? Or music? What kind?
Depends on what I’m writing. I can’t write fiction is anything with lyrics is playing. If I play music, classical, instrumental, even whale music I cut off anyway and don’t hear it as I’m deep inside the world of my characters. If I’m doing admin etc I listen to podcasts.
7. What is your favourite thing to do when you are not writing?
Toddler wrangling, board games, Top Trumps or drawing on Procreate with my grandbabies. We also have a great game of storytelling. We each get a couple of sentences and then take turns to build a story. I hope it’s helping them know it’s OK to have fun with words. We also watch Tiktok together. I love that they know their Nannan works on social media, so they see a positive side.
Helping my daughter as she builds her new business. Knitting, sewing, rock painting, creative stuff. TV, addicted to real crime, NCIS, Law & Order etc.
8. Who is your current celebrity crush?
Along with the other 5 million, @taylor_thatdancer on Tiktok.
It’s important to remember that fiction is not desire or ambition. The darkest fiction is often written by the most generous and settled writers. By allowing our shadow side to be indulged in our writing, we release from our ‘real’ world.
9. Why do you think it’s important to write fiction?
It’s important to remember that fiction is not desire or ambition. The darkest fiction is often written by the most generous and settled writers. By allowing our shadow side to be indulged in our writing, we release from our ‘real’ world.
Books have power. It can be a way to give a political or revolutionary thought. Story can be life changing or life affirming. It can also just be a good read. It doesn’t always have to be ‘important.’
I have no idea why I love it, but I will always make things up.
10. Who would be the best writer, alive or dead, to tell the story of your life?
Great question. Stephen Fry does ridiculously well researched books and makes the facts easily understandable. I guess me, coz there’s so much that others don’t know. Lately I have been thinking of writing a bio. Kafka, too dark. Attwood, I’m too humble. Dickens would be fun, just to show he can write good women after all.
11. What are you working on right now?
Lol! Erotica, as it’s bringing some money in. Editing (ugh) my next thriller. A business planning book. A children’s book. I’ve also got a book that I’m writing twice. No idea if it’ll work, but I’m toning it down to a YA book, and making it extremely dark as a post-apocalyptic horror.
Ashes – A Jezzabelle Jones Mystery
A warehouse fire leaves a homeless military veteran dead. In his pocket a dog-eared birthday card, and a faded photograph of a young girl.
Jezzabelle ‘Belle’ Jones, insurance investigator, is surprised when she’s trusted with the case. It could finally lead to her long-awaited promotion. Her instincts tell her this fire wasn’t an accident.
When her boss comes under pressure from the wealthy warehouse owner, she’s told to close the case quickly. She knows she should follow the rules, but Belle’s never liked doing as she’s told.
She calls on Barnaby ‘Mac’ St John, a reclusive ex-firefighter, to help her work out what happened. The little girl in the photograph deserves answers.
Then there’s another fatal fire… Can Belle keep her job long enough to catch the arsonist? How many more people will die before she solves the case?
This first Jezzabelle Jones murder mystery is set in Yorkshire, England. If you love crime solving duos, this new pairing will not disappoint.
June 2021 – This version is a rewrite and edit. It is the same story, but the book has been improved overall for the reader’s enjoyment. Link: https://books2read.com/ashesmystery
