The Shuper Duper Shona Kinsella

I was in the shower.

Now the thought of me in the shower is usually enough to make even the most forgiving of souls physically retch and attempt to blind themselves.  Many times has an unwitting fool wandered aimlessly into my temple of cleanliness, only to stagger out moments later screaming for their mothers and gagging like an old dog trying to swallow a toad.  It's an awful sight, trust me.  Even I have removed all mirrors from the room in an effort to stop myself from catching a glimpse and inverting my digestive system.  I think you get the idea.

That is why, dear reader, I shall not go into too much detail of my evening ablutions.  I should not wish to be responsible for some kind of worldwide viral giraffe flu, or whatever the next poor animal likely to get the blame for poor toilet hygiene and a lack of hand washing.  No, I shall spare you the misery of upchucking onto your keyboard or smartphone as you claw at your eyelids in a vain attempt to remove the mental image from your psyche.

Look at me being all kind and thoughtful?  Well, actually don't look at me, it is something that I would not wish upon my worst enemy (and I have a few).

Anyway, I ramble, as is my wont.  I was in the shower, I finished my shower, and I stepped out of my shower, let us just leave it there and remain 'Vom free'.

I was not wearing my glasses, of course not, why would I in the shower?  The room was awash with steam (my water temperature is usually set painfully high by my butler, Manson, on my instruction.  Its is the only way to burn the horror of the world from my pink and cloud-soft skin).  The steam was thick, not unlike a pea-souper from the good old days in London when I terrorised the east end back in 1888, but as I reached for my towel I saw a dark shape in the mist.  At first I thought it to be the butler, Manson would often sneak into my bathroom, knife in hand, to hilariously attempt to re-enact my favourite moment from Psycho, but it was the wrong shape, it was smaller, and a lot less 'knifey'.

I furiously wrapped the towel around me, it was an intruder!

The transcript of our encounter is recorded, as all sound within the castle, whether it be screams of agony or moans of boredom, as follows;

Good morning, nice to see you.  What’s your name and what IN THE HELL ARE DOING IN MY BATHROOM!!!

My name is Shona Kinsella and I travelled here through the steam from another dimension. My goodness, you must have been in the shower for a long time to create that much steam – what were you doing in there? No, wait, don’t tell me!

The less you know of my ablutions the better.  I think I’ve heard of you.  Haven’t you written a book or something?  Tell me all about it in 40 words or less.

My latest book is called Ashael Falling and it’s about a stone age medicine woman who has to protect her people from soul-sucking invaders from another world. It has magic, winged people, giant cats and heartbreak. 

Torture time.  Everyone who visits my house gets tortured in one way or another; sometimes the rack, sometimes the Iron Maiden, sometimes my poetry.  I have three rooms downstairs. One room is full of spiders, the second has a sound system which plays nothing more than Max Bygraves, and the final room is where is full of sarcastic hipsters with man buns.  Which room would you be least happy to spend an eternity in? And if you were to ever get your revenge on me what would be in your room of nightmares?

I would be least happy to spend eternity in the room full of spiders. They give me the heebie-jeebies, much as I appreciate that they serve a useful function which is more than I can say for sarcastic hipsters.

My revenge would be to trap you in a room with no books for all of eternity mwahahahaha… wait, no, that’s too cruel. I’d stick you in a room that played the baby shark song over and over again. 

Baby Shark?  You have a very dark side to you, Kinsella, very dark indeed.  What other cruel powers do you possess? What about hypnotism, is it real or just a way of twisting the feeble minded into suggestion?  If you had the power who would you use it on?

I do believe in hypnotism, but I think that some people are more susceptible to it than others. If I had the power, I would use it on my kids to make them clean up after themselves and stop talking whenever they saw my laptop open. 

If you were a pop star in the seventies who would you most resemble?

A Bowie – mysterious and too cool for the world

A Bolan – mystical and experimental, destined for a short life

An Osmond – squeaky clean and adorable to grandmothers

A Ferry – A supermodel partnered crooner

I would like to think it would be Bowie but I don’t think I’m cool enough. I would probably be most like an Osmond, despite my best efforts to be rebellious and cool. 

If you were to be offered to ghost write an autobiography of a famous figure from the music industry who would it be?  Would you drool like a fan girl at them, or of course behave very professionally?

Hmmm that’s a tough pick. I think I would go with James Hetfield, the lead singer of Metallica. I’m sure I would drool at first, but hopefully I would get over it pretty quickly and find my professionalism.

Aliens have landed!!!  Quick pack a bag and head for the hills!  What 4 items couldn’t you do without?

My kindle and portable charger so that at least I would have books with me.

A notebook and pen so that I could write.

You are a Goddess.  Not the one in total charge, mind you, I have that ultimate power.  In my All-Fatherly wisdom I have given you the power to control the next stage of human evolution.  What changes are you going to make?

I would make it physically painful for people to act with anything less than kindness and compassion. Then I might give people wings 

Step into my time machine.  Don’t worry about the exposed wiring, no one has died this week. Right, where are you off to and what are you going to do when you get there?

I think I might go back to Stone Age Scotland and see what it was really like so long ago. I’ve read a lot about that time period in research for my Vessel of KalaDene series and obviously, it’s all based on interpretation of the few preserved items that we have from that time period. I’d love to know what was interpreted correctly and what we’re way off the mark with. 

`

Where else on the whole blinkin’ World Wide Web can I find you?  Do you Facebook? Insta? Tweety? Blog? Let me know where I can stalk you in the future.

You can find me in all the usual places.

Facebook : www.facebook.com/ShonaKinsellaAuthor

Twitter: www.twitter.com/shona_kinsella

Instagram: www.instagram.com/shona.kinsella

And my website: www.shonakinsella.com

Ashael Falling is funding at: www.unbound.com/books/ashael-falling

I had had enough.  The steam was beginning to dissipate, and very soon Kinsella would begin to feel nauseous.  I would prefer not to be mopping up another room, I already have to mop up my own torture chamber after Manson threatened to get his union involved.

I asked her to leave with a promise that I would indeed be supporting her novel Ashael Falling (the link to which is above).  I had the pleasure of reading its predecessor Ashael Rising and found it to be the perfect way to forget about the awfulness of real life for awhile everyday.  With the current state of the world something similar would be a true blessing.

You should support Ashael Falling, I order it.  You will not be disappointed.

If you want to also support another fantasy novel full of Love, Death, Angels and Demons, you would do well to go to https://unbound.com/books/the-love-of-death/ and give my latest book a gander.  It's a comedy about my very good friend and often dinner guest The Grim Reaper, and what happens to him when he falls in love.

If you have enjoyed this blog interview and wish to star in your very own episode, please get in touch at caraticuspholbrook@gmail.com

Go on, what in Heaven's name are you waiting for?

 

The Ecstatically Erudite Ewan Lawrie

It was a beautiful sunny morning at Holbrook Towers.

Birds were singing and they swooped and climbed in the unseasonably azure sky, on the edge of the nearby 'Forest of Certain Death', small woodland creatures danced and played in the dappled light. 

I stood on the battlements soaking in the warmth of the day, and the first inklings of a smile began to work their way onto my face; what a time to be alive!

To the regular reader of this journal, this scene may seem unusual.  Why was I not stood there, foul of face, and shotgun in hand, peppering shots at the birds as the soared and dipped above my castle?  What was wrong with me that I was not hurling rocks and cannisters of burning oil at the woodland animals, gloating as the burned to a crisp?  Was I ill?  Had I been on the sauce ealry today?

The answer, dear reader, came from the experience that had befallen me before I had even looked out of the window that morning and seen how beautiful the world was.  In fact I had woken in my normal state, impossibly hung over, irately furious at my butler Manson for waking me with breakfast in bed, and murderously desperate to empty my bladder.

I had jumped threateningly from my bed towards Manson, picking up the nearest weapon to hand, which happened to be my favourite mace (I always keep my most favoured weapons of murder and senseless violence near to my bedside as you never knew who would be coming to my bedroom at night in search of notoriety or revenge).  Manson, breakfast tray in hand, back away nervously. He had been on the wrong end of this mace before, his false ear was testament to this.  He avoided my clumsy swings long enough for me to remember that my bladder was full to bursting and that if I didn't visit the little boys room, there would be yet another terrible mess to be mopped up. 

It was as I stood relieving myself, that I was disturbed by a noise behind me.  I was sure that I hadn't left a nearly dead body in the bath again, but I couldn't stop the job 'in hand' to turn around and look. There was a clunk, and a rattle, a scrape and a rustle.  It was all most confusing.

I finished with a flourish (of course) and swung to see who the intruder was.  The bathroom was empty, but it would seem that the noises were coming from my bathroom cabinet, a place usually frequented by industrial strength pile creams and horse tranquillisers.  I picked up my mace and approached it slowly.  Was it a rat?  Mice? Yet another oversized spider?

With a speed not often seen by me, much before lunchtime, I tore the cabinet door open, only to find a man.  Yes, a man, perched on one of the shelves and gorging on Colgate.

Our ensuing conversation, is recorded (as all utterances are recorded by a vast array of microphones placed around the castle) as follows...

Oh my Lord!  How did you get into my bathroom cabinet?  Stop eating the toothpaste and tell me who you are?  

I, dear fellow, am the former spy and creator of two novels featuring  Moffat the Magniloquent. As for eating your Colgate Spearmint toothpaste, eat it I must, for I was a Mint Spy. 

Books?  Tell me all about your latest? You’ll need to be brief though, I have the memory span of an earthworm. 

I have but recently written No Good Deed, the sequel to Gibbous House, which is currently the subject of a Tub-thumping -that is to say crowdfunding - campaign at Unbound. Shall I repeat that? What do you mean, repeat what? 

Have you brought me a present?  You better had, otherwise you’ll get locked in my attic with all my spooky dolls.  What is it?

    Coincidentally I have brought you a doll of my own… or at least part of     one. It is a doll I had occasion to use in several arcane ceremonies,     however the voudoun never did work on my Squadron Commander. His     head is still connected to his body as far as I know. (see picture) 

I am not a man without manners.  I have a present for you as well.  I give you the gift of Van Dyke. You are able to impersonate any accent in the known world, everyone understands you, you are able to converse with the world.  What is your message to the people of earth?

   

    “Klaatu barada nikto” I fear it will be no more effective than last time.

I love the movie Groundhog Day, however the most infuriating thing about it is how Bill Murray has to wake up listening to Sonny and Cher every morning.  If you found yourself in Bill Murrays shoes and had the choice, which song would you open your eyes and greet the world to every morning? On the flip side, which song would have you crawling from your bed every morning like a grizzly bear with an arrow in his arse?

    A song that ALWAYS makes me smile is Chemistry by Semisonic. A tune guaranteed to give me toothache, sore head and other sundry ursine provocations is… Whatsamatta You, by Joe Dolce

          

   

Have you ever thought about what it would be like to live forever, until the end of time?  I have, in fact I intend to be the last man alive on earth. If you could bestow this gift on anyone who would it be and would it be a curse?

    Yes, I have. I think it would be boring. I know the Devil is bored and it seems as though God has Alzheimer’s, so maybe immortality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Waterworld – not just an overblown and greatly derided Kevin Costner movie from the nineties, it’s actually going to come true.  Do you think you could live in a world without land; no trees or hills, mountains or fields. Just you and your boat, roaming the flooded wasteland? 

I have a confession to make: I am the worst swimmer ever to be allowed to fly as aircrew in the Royal Air Force, so no. 

You have been given $300m by a major film company and told to create the greatest ever action movie, think Seagal but with special effects, Van Damme with a budget, Norris with acting skills.  Here’s the rub though, it has to be based on a Dickens book. Pitch me your best shot, who stars in it? How will you turn Victorian Britain into a Hollywood style. Popcorn muncher? Is it brutal and realistic, or layered with more cheese than a Frenchman’s larder?   

“Sidney Carton, Charles Darnay: the rôles Schwarzenegger was born to play. Set against the background of Revolutionary France, Arnie plays the effete French lover and the duplicitous barrister with his usual erudition. With Olivia Colman as Mme. Defarge, “A Tale of Two Twins” is both boffo box-office and a shoo-in for the Oscars” 

Let’s do Blind Speed dating!  With a difference! Behind the screen are four eligible people, both male and female.  You have to spend a long weekend in an isolated log cabin with one of them. Which one do you choose?

Steve – Steve likes long walks in the country, cuddles with his dog, and cooking fine cuisine for romantic nights in.  He is also a fan of farting loudly, collecting his urine in milk bottles, and knitting scarves from his pubic hair.

Rick – Rick is possible the most physically attractive man that the world has ever seen. He works tirelessly for world peace and an end to poverty.  He also likes to wander naked and loves showing off his great helicopter trick.

Sarah – Sarah is undeniably fun to be around. She has a joke for every minute of the day, and not a day goes by without her making everyone around her laugh.  Also not a day goes by when she washes herself and she is followed by flies wherever she goes.

Michelle - Michelle is like a walking encyclopedia. There is nothing she does not know it can discuss at length.  She is warm, friendly and has an infectious smile. Michelle may be responsible for the brutal deaths of both her parents and a long list of hitchhikers, woodland animals and past boyfriends.

Could I not invite them all and murder them one-by-one?

Where are you in the great and virtual world of the interweb?  Do you tweet? Insta? Blog? Tell me where you are for heaven’s sake!

    I have been known to tweet @EwanL, I am on Facebook here  , however my marketing agents Please Allow Me Inc maintain a page here . My blog is here and charts my life in Spain, the leaving of Spain, sundry book reviews and general bloggery. 

He was beginning to look a little uncomfortable, crammed as he was on the smallest of the shelves and I pulled him out so that he could stretch his limbs once again and restore the blood in his extremities.

Here was a kindred spirit to I.  Here was a man who relished writing tales of brutal murder and uncompromising violence.  Here was one that I probably shouldn't have dragged kicking and screaming down to the cellar and my vast array of torture toys.  I paused for a moment, weighing up my options.  What point was there in a long but satisfying torture session, the man would probably revel in the experience.

Against all my cruel natures I led him up to the battlements of my castle, where we stood in the beautiful morning sun and gazed out over the idyll of the grounds and forest below us.  I promised him that I would read his newest book, as it transpired that I had already read and thoroughly enjoyed his first.  I would encourage you to do the same, you can find Gibbous House here;

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Gibbous-House-Ewan-Lawrie/dp/1783520892/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1553415242&sr=8-1&keywords=Gibbous+House 

and you can go and support his latest tome here;

https://unbound.com/books/no-good-deed/ 

But was it this discourse with a fellow writer that had brightened my mood so unussually this morning , I hear you ask?

Had finding a like-minded author brought about a warm happiness within me, a sense of wonder and awe at the world around me that had not been apparent on my visage in many a year?

No it was because once I had had enough of the conversation, I pushed him off the battlement screaming and flailing into the cold dark water of my moat below.  I think he survived the fall, and even perhaps the crocodiles.  I'm not totally sure as I had already spun on my heel and gleefully descended to my bedroom once more, to soundly beat Manson for waking me.


If you don't want to suffer the fate of Ewan Lawrie, or Manson the butler for that matter, you would also do well to go to https://unbound.com/books/the-love-of-death/ and give my latest book a gander.  It's a comedy about my very good friend The Grim Reaper, and what happens to him when he falls in love.

If you have enjoyed this blog interview and wish to star in your very own episode, please get in touch at caraticuspholbrook@gmail.com

Go on, what the devil are you waiting for?

The Excellently Effervescent Emma Grae

I was in a funk.

Not in a 70s disco fashion, but more likely the 90s shoegazing type.

It had been nearly two years since the time that I had last ventured forth from Holbrook Towers (voted Miserable Monthly's worst place to visit 2016).  I never went out myself, and the only visitors to the castle would be the postman, whichever one had drawn the short straw that morning, and the brave but stupid Tesco delivery man, who brought in my weekly van load of provisions ordered by my butler Manson.

I didn't know the full reason for my depression, perhaps it was the fact that everyone in the nearby village of Scraggybottom had moved away in fear of their lives, it could have even been the cancellation of my favourite TV programme 'Cannibal MasterChef'.  Whatever it was, or the combination of miseries, I was in a funk and no mistake.

It had even been such a long time since my miserable ennui had been interrupted by a wandering author (why they kept harassing me was and still is a mystery).  Perhaps it was because the last two that had come knocking, had ended up being dragged to the kitchens, and found themselves at the mercy of my Michelin starred cook Dahmer.  

It was as I wandered the battlements of the tower, idly loosing a trebuchet full of lava at the nearby animal sanctuary, that a movement caught my eye in the courtyard below.  It was small and quick, so I knew that it wasn't an escapee from the dungeon (the first stop on anyone's visit to my dungeon was a day on the rack followed by a quick try on my newest invention Holbrook's automatic kneecapper).  It was an outsider!  Someone had foolishly broken in.

Without a moment to spare I darted down the stairs in pursuit of the invader.  I knew that it had headed towards the stables, and that it would be trapped (there was only one door into the stables, that had been the case since I'd bricked up the paddock as even the horses were running away from me).

I stood in the door way, axe in hand (I always carry one with me, as you never know when you might need it).

"Come out, invader!"  I called, "Show yourself or I come in swinging!"

She emerged.  The transcript of our conversation is recorded as follows.

Who in the blazes are you? And do you make a habit of breaking into castles? Explain yourself before I loose the rats!

My name’s Emma Grae. I’m a Scottish author and journalist. I’m physically based in London Town, but my writing’s almost always set in either Scotland or Ireland. I’ve written two books (and I’m about halfway through a third); the first of which, be guid tae yer mammy, was selected for publication by Unbound in January 2019. Oh, and I’ve been publishing poetry and fiction in journals for quite some time now. Find my work in the likes of The Honest Ulsterman and From Glasgow to Saturn.

As for breaking into castles? Well, the opportunity has never arisen, but if it did… I mean, I did accidentally steal a fork from Oscar Wilde’s house.

Written a book have you?  What’s it called, and can you tell me what it’s all about in less than fifteen words, I have the memory of an old goldfish.

Be guid tae yer mammy is about a queen, her fall from grace and her eventual redemption.

I hear you’re from north of the wall.  Is it true what they say about this Scottish folk?  Tell me the most Scottish thing you’ve ever seen. And then the most English.

I’m not sure what you mean by what they say about Scottish folk. We only pour Irn Bru onto our cornflakes sometimes and contrary to what Braveheart suggests, we only wear kilts on Wednesdays.

The most Scottish thing I’ve ever seen is a person—a man who frequents a rock club in Glasgow known as the “Catty” to locals. He’s called “Ladybug Guy”, and he’s something of a local celebrity. Despite not drinking alcohol, he turns up to just about every club night wearing a red corset from Ann Summers and a ladybug print tutu. While you’d expect him to get murdered, he’s actually accepted for the glorious weirdo that he is. I think that sums up what makes Scotland, especially Glasgow, great. 

As for the most English thing? I didn’t see this one per se, but I heard that someone put a Victoria sponge cake on a tube seat (funnily enough, this was also the Victoria Line), and people chose to stand instead of asking the owner to move it. People in London, at least, are simultaneously rude and polite to a fault—and I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

It is the year 2030, your debut novel has been recognised as the single most important literary work in human history.  In recognition of your contribution to the world you are given the freedom of the planet. You may choose one country to rule over and bend to your evil will.  Which country do you become the Empress of and what is the first law you would pass?

Oh, that’s easy. I’d rule Ireland and have Guinness flowing from the taps instead of water.

In your opinion what is the single greatest smell in the universe?  Use your mastery of the written word to make me imagine the smell.

I can’t narrow it down, but I know you can combine these smells so let’s go for it:

I’m a big fan of nostalgia, and the happiest time of my childhood was spent in San Fransisco. I’d go to the pool in my apartment complex almost every day and let my hair dry in the California sun. It always stunk of chlorine, and now, whenever I smell it, I’m taken back in a little time capsule to 2002. So my perfect smell is that—even if it’s from a public pool in South London— combined with just about anything that smells of lavender (usually Lush’s ‘Sleepy’ body lotion which I’m a big fan of).

You have been blessed with an outstanding new skill. Which one do you choose; piano playing genius or devastating mistress of Kung Fu?

Probably the ability to do burlesque without having to learn anything. I’m a pretty clumsy bugger, but I love the idea of being a showgirl—albeit a sexier (or at least trying to be) one than I’ve depicted through Lizzie in be guid tae yer mammy. 

In the future cinema will be the ultimate interactive entertainment. You will not just go and watch a movie, you will be in it, playing the role of your choice. What film, either an old favourite or one from the depths of your imagination will you be a part of?

I’d love to play Penny Lane in Almost Famous. She’s such a free-spirited but vulnerable character. I’d like to think I’ll channel a little bit of those qualities into a character myself at some point.

Fear is a wonderful thing. It inspires, it scares, it makes the brave into a coward and the coward a hero.  I myself suffer terribly from xenolugcatchaphobia – the fear of having my ears stolen by aliens with terrifying long poles with nets on the end. What is the thing that you individually and no one else in the world most scared of? Give your very own particular fear a proper phobia name.

Oh god. Without going into detail, largely because of fear that I’ve yet to master, I struggle with a lot of fears. Basically, my own little Room 101—only its contents change on a fairly regular basis. So let’s call it personalorwellianaphobia. 

Social media profile pictures will be banned in the future, instead every person with a Facebook, twitter, insta account will have to display a coat of arms and a three word motto. What’s on your shield and what’s your three word tagline?

The lightening bolt from the cover of David Bowie’s ‘Aladdin Sane’ would definitely be on mine. And maybe the tagline “Dos La Rumplestilskin” because I literally wouldn’t know what to say—pretty ironic considering what I’m doing with my life, but there you go. 

Finally, where in the world wide Web can you be found and followed? Do you FB? Insta? Tweet or blog?

You can keep up-to-date with my writing by following my Twitter account @emmagraeauthor or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/emmagraeauthor/. 

I stood and glared at her for a moment.  Would I let her live and run free from the castle?  Perhaps her escape would encourage others to visit?  It was an interesting idea, my dungeon might fill up again.  My funk might lift. I could be happy again (well as happy as I ever got).

"Manson!" I hollered.  My bearded manservant came running, he knew the consequences for not being quick enough.  "Manson, take this intruder and let her out of the front gate."

I turned to Emma.  "You may leave here with your life." I muttered.  "And I will probably even support your book.  But you must send others.  Let it be known that Holbrook Towers welcomes authors.  Authors of all kinds may come and visit me.  They will be interrogated, they may be tortured, but they also may get some book sales, which is obviously more important that simple life and death."

Emma scuttered off after the butler, and I immediately repaired to the drawing room where I visited 

https://unbound.com/books/be-guid-tae-yer-mammy/

You should go there too, and you should pre-order your copy of Emma's book.  I have and I am a beacon of light after which all people follow in the end.

And whilst you're at it, you would also do well to go to https://unbound.com/books/the-love-of-death/ and give my own latest book a gander.  

If you have enjoyed this blog interview and wish to star in your very own episode, please get in touch at caraticuspholbrook@gmail.com

Go on, what the devil are you waiting for?

A new book - and re-starting my blog

And so it begins again.

Its been a while since I added to my blog and the time is right.  I have a new book written and a new crowdfunding campaign aimed at making it happen.

The new book is something very different from my usual fare.  There is no Victorian horror here, there are no grisly and ghastly murders, no secret societies to bring down, no Finnish folklore.  Instead what I have written is a love story.

Yes you read that right, a love story.

Do not worry however, I haven't gone completely Barbara Cartland (although some mornings I do feel as aged and feeble looking).  I'm not sending manuscripts off to Mills and Boon at a rate of one a week, and I don't look as if I put on my make up in a moving car in the dark, although this may yet happen.

The Love of Death, for that is the book's name, is the story of how The Grim Reaper falls hopelessly in love whilst going about his normal, and quite unsavoury, business.  Its a comedy, written very much in the vein of a Pratchett or Gaiman novel.  It's set in a bizarre world full of odd characters, incompetent angels, conniving demons, and a worryingly out of touch, and childlike supreme being.

Initially it wasn't going about the Grim Reaper at all.  The leading character was going to be the Devil himself.  But I wondered if I really wanted to be the writer of a book called The Love of Satan.  Sure there would probably be an audience for it somewhere in the world (satanic cults, Scandinavian death metal bands etc.) but it wouldn't tell the story that I wanted to tell and I settled on someone who I thought would make a much more interesting and unexplored character.

It started as a small piece, a simple written scene with the two central characters, Grim (as he would become known throughout the book) and Tracey, the unenthusiastic object of his desires.  I was a basic premise, Grim was simply trying to persuade her that he was not just some weirdo kidnapper, who randomly rescued about to die women and then tried to get into their knickers.  The scene developed, as did the characters and I began thinking about the bigger picture.  What would be the ramifications for the world if the Angel of Death suddenly fell in love and abandoned his post?  Could he really persuade Tracey that she was the love of his very long life?

If you like the sound of this book and want to know more just go to my new Unbound page https://unbound.com/books/the-love-of-death/ have a more in-depth read of what it's all about, watch a video I made one afternoon, and even read an excerpt.

If it's your cup of tea then please pre-order your copy.  The more people that pre-order it the sooner it will get published and you'll be able to read the thing.

Over the next few weeks and months the blog will be back in full flow.  I have authors aplenty to interview, who will be visiting Holbrook Towers in the vain attempt to peddle their wares, as well as other blog posts highlighting the concept of the new book, weird art that I have created whilst writing it, and new short stories which may or may not be related to the book.

So keep an eye out, I'm aiming to post at least one a week on a Sunday.

Paul x