I’ve been writing for years now. I finish a novel and then I’m on to the next, excited to be on a new adventure. I don’t stick to genres or target markets, so I’ve probably ‘shot myself in the foot’ as they say. I say ‘I don’t care’, as I just love to write.
The ideas pour out and sometimes I’m not able to type fast enough, my fingers a blur and when I look up at the screen, it is a mass of red where I’ve hit the wrong key. Someone else writes it all. It’s not me and I have to read it all back slowly to see what they’ve written. On occasions, I’m shocked. Who is the person in my head who wrote that? Slowing down and editing comes much later.
I write for kids, YA, adults. I dabble in future visions of our world, thrillers, chick-lit. I have nine novels finished (so far), apart from the endless editing and I’m well on my way with my tenth.
From my cold, dead hands is a psychological thriller, set in Atlanta, Georgia.
Cassie wakes up in a hospital in Atlanta after a terrible accident but is unable to remember who she is. Although she has a life of power and luxury, she somehow remembers poverty and want. She discovers she was a reprehensible woman; bigoted, racist, homophobic and a leading member of the NRA. If she knows one thing, it’s that she’s terrified of guns. Even her family no longer recognise her. Can she win them over to the new ‘her’?
Cassie’s dreams tell of something else, of someone else and who is the Englishman trying to kill her?