Munro no 3 – By Sword and Storm – will soon be hitting the bookshops (and e-readers). The proof-reader has been through it, but I still need to check anything that needs altered as a result, and I’m in discussion with Corazon and with myself re the cover. Formatter is on standby (at least I hope she is) as is the printer, (ditto). And we’re working on the possibility of some ARCs to be sent as review copies. (There are some technical hitches with those, but hopefully they will be resolved soon, courtesy of the KDP print service, which may solve the problem of getting a small number of print copies without having to re-mortgage the house).

If all goes well it won’t be long now…

In the meantime two Amazon related notifications that some of you might be interested in. The first is an article about Eoin Purcell – Head of Amazon Publishing UK – the publishing wing is distinct from Amazon marketplace.

The second is an Amazon Academy day to be held in Newcastle on the 5th June. I was an attendee at a similar event last year in Edinburgh and it was very useful and informative. This time I will be one of the panellists.  Oh, and it’s FREE. If you’re within shooting distance of Newcastle (or even if you aren’t) it would be good to see you there.

 

 

The papers this week have been full of obituaries of Drue Heinz, the lovely lady who gave so generously to support writers in both the US and the UK. I was fortunate enough to be awarded two Hawthornden Fellowships (in 2011 and 2016). It’s impossible to adequately describe the experience, suffice to say they have been two of the most productive writing months of my life and I am immensely grateful for the generosity that made them possible.

Here is a flavour of the Hawthornden experience

What do you call six total strangers immured together in a 17^th century castle for a month, with minimal mobile phone reception, no internet and a rule of silence for nine hours per day?   Answer – ‘Hawthornden Fellows.’

From mid-February – mid-March 2016 I was privileged to be one of those ‘Fellows’. 

I arrived on a drizzly Sunday afternoon in February, just as the light was beginning to fail. As I keyed in the code I’d been sent, tall gates swung back allowing me entrance to a long drive curving downwards through woodland carpeted with snowdrops. Beyond the main entrance to the castle is a grassed courtyard, bounded on two sides by the remains of an ancient keep and on the third by a low parapet, providing the only protection from the sheer drop of 100 feet or more to the river below. The inner door opened onto a flagged stone hallway with a welcoming open fire. Later there would be time to examine the coat of arms above the entrance, the commemorative stone plaque on the castle wall and the library, but for now the priority is to find my room and settle in.

The writers’ rooms are on the second and garret floors, the latter reached via a steep spiral staircase, so narrow that several folk have to open their cases in the entrance hall and ferry their belongings up by the armload. Each room is different, varying from tiny to very large, but all are comfortable, and have everything we need. I quickly feel at home in mine.

Our first meal was in the formal dining room with linen napkins and elaborate place settings, including pewter water goblets. It was also the opportunity to meet the other ‘Fellows’ with whom I would spend the next month. Aside from me (from Ulster, living in Scotland) there was one American, one Dane and three English, all with very different backgrounds, which made for lively and interesting discussions and unexpected insights.

Breakfasts and dinners (other than Sundays) are served in the ‘hearth room’, the elm table scarred by centuries of use, the porridge served in pewter bowls. Lunch is delivered to our rooms in Fortnum and Mason baskets, and at night our chat in the drawing room is presided over by near life-size portraits of Aldous Huxley, Jean Cocteau and Truman Capote.

There is a sense that work can and must be done here. And work was done, each of us finding our own rhythm, but all I think achieving our self-imposed targets, in between forays into the woods and along the river: ‘thinking’ time in which to process ideas, and to return re-invigorated. My target was 20,000 words of a new novel, for which I had no idea of plot. I came home with a storyboard covered in post-it notes and 23,500+ words of a first draft.

For almost 2 weeks there was no central heating, courtesy of a boiler failure, which in February in a 17^th century castle is atmospherically chilly, despite the administrator’s best efforts. So I turned my room into a ‘cave’ covering over the windows with double layers of heavy card, the lack of natural light far out-weighed by the increased comfort. And when the sun shone, I worked in the greenhouse in the walled garden.

On the last evening someone asked what we each might change when we went home? Imposing a 9-hour rule of silence would be impossible (sadly), but I hope to maintain a daytime embargo on internet use.

Would I go back? Like a shot.

Here’s the link to the Herald obituary (in which I get a mention).

http://www.heraldscotland.com/opinion/16132361.Obituary___Drue_Heinz__heiress__philanthropist_and_patron_of_the_arts_in_Scotland/

 

 

Easter Eve.

A day of preparation and expectation in many Christian churches around the world. It is also a day of waiting, of taking time to reflect on the sombre events of the Crucifixion before the joy of Resurrection morning.

On this day 495 years ago, a group of 12 nuns in a convent close to a small town in Saxony were waiting for night to fall, and for the opportunity to put their plan to flee the convent into action. It was the one night of the year when they were officially allowed to stay up late in order to undertake the Easter Vigil, offering them the best possible chance of escape.                                                                                                                                               The convent buildings are all but gone now, 

but it is possible to imagine them waiting in silence in their individual cells until they are sure everyone else has gone to sleep, then slipping through the door in the wall of the convent to the wagon that will carry them to freedom.

It was a courageous act, not only on their part, but also on the part of Herr Koppe, the Torgau councillor and merchant who provided the transport, and Martin Luther, the reformer who made the arrangements after he received their appeal for help. It was a capital offence to aid a nun in this way, so not to be undertaken lightly.

It was an action that would have far reaching consequences and the effects have reverberated across the centuries and throughout the Christian world.

For Martin Luther and for one of the nuns, the twenty-three-year old Katharina von Bora, the impact would be more personal. 

To preview Katharina’s story click here.  If you are in the UK and wish to purchase a signed copy please use the contact form here