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I used to sit opposite a trader who after downing two
bottles of claret at his club would repeatedly pop pepto bismal and blow
me kisses. Flushed pink and overweight it seemed as if a giant raspberry
was blowing raspberries at me - was this a sign? Was I not destined to
be a briefcase carrying, oil trading, Amex member after all? The trader
opposite me was one of fifteen men that I worked with and all of them in
their own special way was a raspberry blower. Depressed and
disenchanted, I began to write. It seemed the only way to both get out
of my life and find some merit in it. |
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What started as sketches based on incidences at work
became Bimba, my first novel. Though not overnight and not without a
major life crisis, an uncomfortable split from a boyfriend and a sudden
departure to South East Asia. Finally I settled down in Cornwall, rented
a tiny cottage on the edge of Bodmin Moor and tried to take the notion
of my being a writer seriously. It is a strange and secluded life
writing, and it took a long time to get used to it. For a while I would
watch myself go about my daily, solo chores. Making breakfast, looking
out of the window as my tea cooled, sitting on a stool with my toast
neatly laid out on a plate, all in silence. Now I am completely used to
spending the entire day on my own, I almost begrudge interruptions and
now that I have a very small child, it is a strange sensation having
another person in the house. My, does she make her presence felt.
Someone said to me that the two hardest things about having a baby is
that suddenly you are waving your husband off to work and that you are
then bereft of adult company. Well, hey, I've being doing that for
years. |
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For some reason, the more I wrote the more macabre my
writing became. When faced with a junction in the story, I would always
take the fork that lead to a more sinister outcome. I do not and
hopefully never will consider myself a warped or gloomy person, but
there is no doubt that my imagination leans towards 'the dark side'.
Even when I was a child, after a day of playing on the stream near my
grandparents I would lie in bed and repeat the day's events in my mind.
This time I would count how many times one of us could have fallen and
drowned. I repeatedly kill off my sisters, my parents, my husband and
pretty much anyone who knows me. I do not exclude myself from my deathly
imaginings and as a result have attended my own funeral numerous times.
Is this strange? Doesn't everyone do this or am I alone in wondering
what it would feel like to turn the steering wheel towards the central
reservation at ninety miles an hour? I am told that vertigo isn't a fear
of heights, it is a fear of what one might do at that height. |
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When I realised I had a natural tendency to let go of
the railings and lean too far over the edge a life of crime seemed the
obvious move and although DEAD ALONE is my first fully fledged crime
book its predecessors have their dark moments. In Bimba, a young man is
beaten up and his assailant urinates over him, corrupt oil traders grind
a woman's face into broken glass and a drug dealer smashes a journalists
hands with a hammer. Wicked Peace, my second novel, also published by
Pan Macmillan, is about the sadomasochistic tendencies of a young woman
with ecstasy induced psychosis who plays her two families off against
each other with dire consequences. This may sound a little odd, but they
are both quite funny in parts. And I suppose that sums up what I like to
write about. The juxtaposition of light and dark, ordinary and
extraordinary, grim reality and playful humour. I never set out to write
a modern classic what I want to do is tell really good stories. |
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The new book sees the launch of DI Jessie Driver, a sexy, sassy,
leather-clad, motorbike riding bird who happens to work for the murder
squad. Some old bones she is sent to investigate turns out to be those
of a minor celebrity who only a few days previously was walking up the
red carpet of a film premier dressed to kill. People who are famous
for being famous are being murdered in such a way that reveals the
sordid side of headline hunting. Jessie has to read the clues and stop
the murderer but with betting shops taking odds for who will be next,
sympathy is not running high for the dead celebs. Baby permitting, the
second Jessie Driver novel will be out this year. Talking of babies,
it is time to feed, so I will end this here. I hope those of you who
read DEAD ALONE enjoy it, I certainly loved writing it, it allowed me
to vent my spleen and kill off a few of those pet hates who didn't
listen to the fifteen minute rule. Bye.
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