I’ve made it to another 1st of the month blog post, even though this really hasn’t been my year. I’m not going to get into details. Instead, let's focus on happier things. I’m sharing some scenes from my dusty shelved stories that will hopefully see the light of day in the future😊
For writing news, the final six parts from my longer series was accepted. I’ve finally said farewell to a group of characters I’ve been writing about for almost eight months – I’m feeling bereft now! I can’t wait to show off when it starts appearing in weekly instalments.
I’m now fully enmeshed in my new project and have started the first uncertain footsteps of submitting a proposal, so fingers crossed. All I can say is that my main inspiration came from Roy’s department store and Brundall during the war years.
Previews
🔥
Lizzie nearly flung herself away when the woman gripped her shoulders. The witch’s
nails were painted reds and greens from the spices she ground.
“Look into that
fire, child,” she demanded. “Watch the way it dances and think on the hurtful
things that were said to you.”
Lizzie’s frantic
thoughts conjured slender figures, imps swirling around each other in mockery
of how she dreamed of dancing with Tom Green. Her vision darkened at the
corners until that rosy centre was all she knew.
The witch put her
thumb to the girl’s forehead. She flicked it as if casting something on the
fire. For a moment, the flames seemed to surge and snap louder.
“There. I’ve
thrown them away.” Now, she crouched, turning Lizzie's head so it was her
dark eyes she focused on, a tiny reflection of the flames fluttering within. “Replace
those foul words. If you weren’t you, if you be a stranger, what would you say
to this little girl sitting in my chair?”
What Lizzie wanted
to say came as if dredged from elsewhere. They were her mother’s words, near
forgotten after so long.
“My kindness is my
bounty. My body is my strength. I am beautiful.”
The woman pulled away. Lizzie blinked; trance broken. Colour leeched back into the cottage and the fire became just a thing in the background, no bigger than her cat.
- Secrets in the Tudor Court
Widow Knocke stood on the edge of the pier with only a tattered shawl and a lantern as her companions. Sea spray slithered undisturbed on her flushed face as the moon held her gaze.
The pure light focused her mind.
She was listening.
As the storm roared and gulls shrieked, Widow Knocke caught the tip and thrust of bells. Not the ones safely tucked
away in the church on the clifftop behind her, but ones that had been lost so many years before, alongside its village and people.
Whenever the waves were harsh and violent, they rocked the drowned
bells. Their song no longer the joyful announcement of christenings
or weddings, instead a
warning. A promise of misery if a ship was out
at sea.
- The Drowned Bells
Writing Tip
Just a quick writing tip this time. This is something I used
to struggle with: character names. Whenever I need to come up with a new name, I turn to my bookshelf and combine authors. Philippa
Gregory and Charlaine Harris become Pippa Harris. Diana Gabaldon + Angela Carter = Diana A. Carter.
As I’m the type to umm and ahh over whether a name sounds
good, it helped me be a bit more decisive.
See you all next month!
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| About the Author |
Kitty-Lydia Dye wanders the beaches for inspiration with her dog Bramble. Her historical fiction has been influenced by the local myths roaming the haunting landscape of the Norfolk marshes. Many of her short stories have appeared in The People's Friend magazine. She has also released a collection inspired by Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera. She enjoys knitting dog jumpers, gazing at the waves at night, exploring church ruins as well as taking part in amateur dramatics (and played the part of an evil flying monkey!)
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