Look in your Heart

A short story inspired by Love Will Keep Us Together by The Captain & Tenille.

 

The shrill ringing of the phone greeted Ella, as she pushed open the front door of her house.

“Can somebody get that?” she yelled, dropping her keys into the oddly shaped ceramic bowl sitting proudly on the table. Her daughter had made in her art class last year.

The phone continued ringing, like an alarm, sounding a countdown. She could rush and hope she caught whoever was calling before they gave up, or she could just take her time and assume they’ll call back.

Ella hurried to the kitchen and dumped her bags of groceries on the counter as she reached across to the wall to retrieve the phone. She half expected it to feel hot after its almost angry, incessant call for attention.

“Hello?” she asked breathlessly.

“Have you seen the paper?” her mother’s irritated voice snapped at her. No ‘hello, how are you’ just straight in with the judgement. Ella sighed.

“No, not yet. I only just got back from shopping. What does it say this time?”

“Banged All Night! My romp with TV cop.”

“Okay.” Ella, waited for more.

“It says here, he was spotted, sneaking out of a £500 a night hotel, by a passerby.”

“Nonsense.” Ella sniffed.

“But they phoned the hotel room and the girl told them everything.” Her mother insisted, her pitch rising as she became more engrossed in the story.

“And when did this happen?” Ella asked, bored with asking the same old questions every time a trashy paper printed an exclusive story about her husband and his philandering ways.

“Last night.”

“Ha! Well that’s not true.” Ella laughed, “he only got back from LA last night and he’s been fast asleep ever since.”

“I just don’t know how you put up with his nonsense, Ella. I’d have divorced him years ago.”

Movement caught her eye and she turned to smile at her husband shuffling along the hall towards the kitchen. His pyjama bottoms hung loose off his hips and his plain white t-shirt showed off the tanned skin from his recent trip.

“Ma, it’s all nonsense. That’s why I put up with it. Papers make up stories. It’s what they do. No one knows what we get up to except for us and I assure you, again, as I’ve been doing for the last ten years, we are fine, Jack is not having any affairs, he doesn’t have a £10,000-a-day cocaine habit and I’m not filing for divorce. Just stop reading those papers, for goodness sake!” Ella rolled her eyes at her husband who smiled innocently.

“I just worry about you, that’s all.” Her mum grumbled. Ella’s face softened.

“I know you do, Mum. But I promise you, there’s no need.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just can.”

Ella returned the phone to its cradle and leaned against the counter smiling at Jack as he moved closer to her, opening his arms and inviting her in for a cuddle.

“What are the red tops accusing me of this time?” He asked, his voice was low, muffled by Ella’s hair. She pulled away and grinned up at him.

“Oh the usual; sordid late-night hotel-room sex with young wannabe starlet.” She shrugged, returning her face to his chest. He kissed the top of her head.

“And, you know…”

She moved away from him, “Of course I do. For one thing, they said it was last night and I know that’s definitely not true.” She grinned, her eyes sparkling with humour as she turned her attention to the groceries.

“You’re mum’s not the only one that can’t believe your lack of suspicion, Ella. If the tables were turned and I was reading all this stuff about you, I don’t know if I’d cope with it.”

“That’s because you’re a man, and you would see it as damaging to your reputation so whether it was true or not you’d believe it and act accordingly to save face.”

Jack’s mouth dropped open and he stood speechless for a moment. Ella moved around the kitchen whistling to herself, smiling at him as she tidied tins and packages into various cupboards. Finally she filled the kettle and prepared two coffee mugs.

After watching her for a few minutes he shrugged.

“You may be right. But why don’t you react in the same way?”

Ella stopped to think about it for a moment while she wiped her hands on a tea cloth.

“Do you remember what it was like before? When we lived in that terraced house in Liverpool? Before that even, when we first started dating?”

“I used to follow you around the playground,” Jack laughed, “it took me three years to pluck up the courage to ask you out.”

Ella laughed, she loved hearing him say that. “Well I always remember, even before we were dating, that your ambition was to act. So when we did eventually get together we both worked towards your dream. It never occurred to me that we wouldn’t realise it together. Never crossed my mind that either one of us would fall out of love, or meet someone else.” She poured water into the mugs and stirred the coffee.

Jake smiled, “I wouldn’t have wanted to do any of this without you.”

“Do you remember when that first job came in?” Ella asked, pushing a mug towards him. He picked it up and took a sip, wincing as it burned his lip. He nodded.

“Oh yes. I remember coming home from the audition and I was convinced I’d blown it.”

“As soon as the phone rang, I knew you’d got it. Your first speaking part.”

“On Casualty!”

“Do you remember what I said to you?” She asked, moving away from the counter and making her way into the conservatory. The sun was pouring through the windows and Jakes eyes sparkled as he nodded.

“You said ‘this is it, love. This is where it starts. Forget the first rung of the ladder, that was years ago, you’re on the first floor landing now and you’re only a few steps away from the top.’ I’ve quoted that, several times to the young actors that appear on our show.”

“Really? That’s nice. I’d forgotten I’d said that, actually.” She laughed.

“So what were you talking about?”

“I said, ‘I love you, remember that, when you have girls hanging around, when you feel tempted by the young beautiful actresses, or the influential agents and directors. Just remember, I love you.’”

“I do remember that. I also remember frowning and telling you that there was no way I’d ever want anyone else.”

Ella shrugged, smiling to herself.

“Well, while we’re on the subject, have you ever been tempted?”

“No!” Jack’s voice shot up a couple of octaves, causing Ella to look at him in surprise.

“Me thinks the gentlemen doth protest too much.” She grinned.

“I just can’t believe you would ask that.”

“I’m not asking if you cheated on me. I’m just asking if you’ve ever had to look in your heart and let my love keep you from doing anything that would end us?”

He smiled. “Well there was that time at the BAFTAs when my co-star suggested we go up to her room for a threesome.” He grinned. Ella threw her head back, laughing loudly. “Seriously though, we’ve been married for fifteen years and as our lives have progressed, the more we’ve experienced together, the more I love you.” He blushed slightly, as he said it. Ella had watched him say ‘I love you’, to a variety of actress on TV, but he always got a little embarrassed when he said it to her. It made him seem vulnerable. It always felt like he was declaring it for the first time, afraid she might feel the same way.

“I know.” She finally said, “I have never doubted your love. We’ve always been working towards the same goal. I went into law to make sure we had a good wage coming in, while you were getting started. You eventually got your break and it lead here. We’re on the same team and I know that we’re both loyal to the team. So that’s why I don’t care about any of these stories in the paper. I know they’re not true.”

“But doesn’t it bother you what other people think? I’m convinced your mum hates me.”

Ella closed her eyes and shook her head.

“Look who are neighbours are. You’ve got what’s-his-face from that band next door, the film director across the road, and God knows how many actors. I can never remember whether I recognise them because we live on the same street or because I’ve seen them in something on TV.”

“Oh tell me about it. I’m so used to seeing the husband of that girl from Eastenders that I started thinking he was the famous one!”

Ella laughed, “exactly, and they all know. They’ve all had their fair share of scandalous news stories.”

“I just don’t know why they make this stuff up. What do they mean to achieve?” He sighed.

It’s all just publicity isn’t it? Keeps your name in the papers, I bet the viewing figures tonight will be through the roof.”

“That’s true, they’re making a decision about whether to take out a third series this week too.”

“Exactly so a nice boost to the viewing figures can only be a good thing.”

Jack narrowed his eyes.

“Did you send that story in? I mean, you did spend last night with me.”

Ella raised her eyebrows slightly and widened her eyes innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Look in your Heart

Please Love Me Too

A short story inspired by the song “I Say A Little Prayer.”

He was smiling at me, his long eyelashes made his blue eyes sparkle a small smile was playing over his lips as his face filled my vision moving closer towards me.

I lifted my face to meet his as he pushed his lips out, I close my eyes and waited for his mouth to meet mine.

The image before me was shattered by a deafening alarm. I reached out my arm and frantically fumbled for the alarm clock to silence it. Lying back in the bed I sighed irritably.

“Eric.”

I closed my eyes and tried desperately to conjure up the image of Eric again but it was no use, that dream was over.

“Please let today be the day that he notices me, please” I whispered.

I shuffled in to the bathroom to clean my teeth and put on my make up. I pulled a hairbrush through my hair, as I stood in front of the wardrobe looking at all my clothes and trying to decide what to wear.

“Something nice. What I wear could be the thing that makes him notice me. Really hope he notices me.” I said to my cat, George, who bumped his back side against me as he passed by, curling his tail around my leg, maintaining contact with me until he was too far away to be in reach. He gave a little miaow as he wandered out of the room. At least someone loves me, I mused as I turned my attention back to my wardrobe and selected a dress that was ever so slightly more fitted than usual with a slightly more plunging neckline than I’d ever worn to work before.

I was wearing new shoes, with a heel. I hadn’t realised that walking would be so much more difficult. Still, something about the shoes made my legs look sort of sexy. But I missed the bus and had to wait ages for the next one. Stupid Eric! He’d better notice me after all this! I smiled to myself as I closed my eyes, letting the motion of the bus lull me into a daydream that revolved around Eric. He was handsome, but not too handsome. His eyes crinkled in the corners like he was laughing all the time and he looked so casual he wore his suits like they were sweat pants. He was my kind of guy. Yet somehow, every time I saw him, I tensed up, I couldn’t speak, my mind went blank. I was normally, laid back, relaxed, and having a good laugh. I was convinced we were kindred spirits. But I was so madly in love with him that I got all giddy whenever he was around.

I finally arrived at work and slipped past the managers office unnoticed.

“I saw you, sneaking in late, what happened?” My friend, Joanna, teased me. Leaning casually against the door frame of my office, she smiled at me, “you look very nice. Are you going to actually speak to him today?” She grinned wickedly.

I frowned, feeling my face flush as she spoke. She knew about my crush on Eric, as she called it. Crush? Believe me, it was more than a crush. I was in love with him. There was no one else I could imagine ever wanting to be with.

Joanna stood up straight wide eyed and looked down the corridor.

“Hi Eric.” She said. I felt my eyes widen in an adrenalin-fuelled panic. I saw him walk past my door.

“Hi Jo, Sandra.” He called as he disappeared out of sight. My mouth dropped open.

“He knows my name.” I whispered. Joanna laughed.

“Seriously. You’re the HR manager, of course he knows your name!”

I scowled at her. Three years ago he’d joined the company and for three years I’d been loving him from afar.

“Come on, let’s go get a coffee.” She moved away from the door and waited for me to join her. We took the lift to the 2nd floor and stepped in to the canteen. Joanna nudged me and nodded towards the vending machines. Eric was putting money into the snack machine. He shoved his hands into his pocket, rummaging for more coins.

“Now’s your chance.” she said, holding a handful of coins towards me. I stared at her, “go on.” she hissed, pushing the money into my hands and shoving me in the direction of the man of my dreams.

I stumbled over to him and stopped, plastering a big smile across my face, I leaned against the neighbouring vending machine and looked at him.

“You need some change?” I asked.

He looked at me in surprise, glancing down at my open palm of silver and then past my hand to my outfit. His mouth slowly turned into a smile as he reached for a coin and fed it into the machine.

“Thanks, Sandra.” He said.

“You’re welcome.” I smiled. I didn’t know what to say next so I stood there like a waiter holding a tray of drinks.

“Are you getting anything?” He asked. I shook myself and grinned, feeding coins into the machine. Eric walked away. I heard him speak briefly to Joanna as he left the canteen.

I groaned, waiting for Joanna to ridicule me for my inability to seize the day.

“Well that was a disaster. What a wasted opportunity. I’m going to die alone. It’s him or no one.” I sighed miserably. She grinned at me.

“Not at all. He just asked me if you were seeing anyone.”

Please Love Me Too

A rebrand, sort of.

I’ve been thinking about it for a while now and any eagle-eyed observant followers may have spotted my first step in making a change when I changed my Twitter display name to H P Stephens. That’s right, my real name.

When I chose the name L E May, it was mainly because I didn’t want my mum to read my novel and shout at me for all the bad language and sex scenes. But she’s my mum, I couldn’t lie to her and she read it anyway. So did my dad, but I don’t want to dwell on that!

But I figured that having a pseudonym for privacy was a good idea so I went with it.

Now that I’ve finished writing my second novel, I have something that I want to put my own name to (and that I’ll gladly let my mum read). And I’ve got several short stories planned out, inspired by songs. I’d kinda like to claim them too.

I’ve never hidden behind fake images (although I did wear a wig for my publicity head shots) so I decided it’s time to stop hiding behind a fake name too.

So over next few weeks I’m going to slowly change things over and make things more simple.

A fresh new look, website and Twitter name. Watch this space!*

*actually, not this space, I’m probably going to move to, I don’t know, hpstephens.co.uk maybe…

A rebrand, sort of.

The Punk Wars

A short story inspired by the song Did I fight in the punk wars for this? By Henry Priestman.

It was Saturday evening. Len left his dinner plate in the sink, closed the door on the kitchen and settled himself into his arm chair by the fire.

He pointed the zapper at the TV and pressed the red button, the sudden glare from the screen illuminating the small living room.

The smiley people in shiny suits and sparkling dresses were grinning manically at him. Len curled his lip and grunted.

Four serious looking people with perfect hair and white teeth, were arguing amongst themselves while a nervous looking teenager waited with a frozen grin on his face that made him look like he was in pain.

It seemed like a decision of absolute importance was being made.

“I just don’t get it.” The stony faced man said, causing the other three to react with varying degrees of shock and outrage.

“How can you say that?” The former pop star, sat next to him, asked.

“It’s like karaoke. And not even good karaoke.” He argued.

The radio DJ at the end of the row held his hands out in disbelief.

“Last week you were complaining he was too gimmicky, this week he’s bad karaoke! What is it you want exactly?”

“Well, I want to win, obviously.” The judge laughed.

Len shook his head as he pointed the zapper at the tv.

“It’s all just a game to you isn’t it?” He asked the man on the screen, before changing the channel, replacing the singing talent show with another early evening light entertainment show in which the latest pop sensation was performing their latest hit. A row of five boys executing synchronised dance moves, took it in turns to stare into the camera with sparkling eyes and wide grins while singing a rearranged, slow cover version of a once classic tune.

The front door opened and slammed shut. Len looked up at the living room door expectantly as his son, Ben, walked in carrying a guitar case.

“Hey pops.” He smiled. Len flickered his eyebrows in acknowledgement, “what are you watching?”

“Nothing, it’s all rubbish.” He flicked through the channels again, scowling when the talent show appeared again.

“They’re singing one of your songs tonight.” Ben told him.

“Well I’ll look forward to that royalty cheque.” He shrugged.

Len had written a few hits in the 80s that were always being included in best of compilations and often got an airing on radio.

“Come on, dad, this show isn’t so bad.”

“It isn’t too good either. It’s ruined music, I mean really, did I come through the punk wars for this rubbish?” Len pointed an accusatory finger at the TV.

“So what was it like when you were starting out?”

Len turned off the TV and turned to his son.

“I always wanted to be in a band when I was younger. I used to sing in front of the mirror, practising my stance and even my between song banter, and of course, my gracious acceptance of applause.” He smiled remembering it.

“I’ve done that a fair few times.” Ben laughed, standing up and peering into the mirror above the fireplace and holding his fist in front of his mouth. Len stood up next to him.

“Mine was always more like this,” he said, curling his top lip slightly and raising an eyebrow, “anyway, there was a teacher at school who could play a few instruments and he agreed to teach me during my lunch hour. I learned a chord or three on his guitar until I saved up enough to buy my own and then I started writing a few songs. Back then it was all over dramatic, ten minute guitar solos, so there didn’t seem to be much use for my three chord wonders.”

“So when did you first join a band?” Ben asked, unlocking his guitar case and lifting his instrument onto his knee.

“Well, in 1975, I went to art school, that’s how all the best bands got started back then, we played all the local bars and got a bit of a name for ourselves. We recorded a few songs and one of our mates started his own record label to release them for us. Nothing huge, but we sold a few. I mean, it’s all part of the rich history of the era now, so you can still buy them on eBay for quite a tidy sum. It was a refreshing change to hear short sharp catchy tunes instead of the disco or prog rock. You had the singers who just sang what they were told to sing, and rockers with long hair that knew all the chords and crammed them all in to one song that lasted forever. And then there was us. We weren’t being told what to sing or what to say, we were telling our own story, there were no minors or flats, it was short, simple and to the point.”

“So what happened?”

“A record company came along and signed us up, we went to New York to record our album.”

“Really? That sounds a bit corporate.” Ben teased him.

Len rolled his eyes and sighed, “in our defence, the punk scene was really happening in New York. It was the place to be and we embraced the chance to travel, but yes, the corporates wanted to control us, copy our model and turn it into the next big thing. Suddenly they were putting together bands that sounded like us. Punk became like a brand and instead of fighting the system we’d given them the blueprints to create a more mainstream version of us that made them loads of money while diluting our message.”

“The bastards fought back, huh?” Ben strummed a melancholic chord on his guitar.

“Yep, and they’ve been winning ever since. Look at this shit.” Len waved a dismissive hand at the TV, “music is dead. They broke it. They care more about tv ratings. People think they’re choosing what makes it by voting, but it’s all rigged. Of all the thousands of people that audition for this show, they cherry pick the ones that fit with their model, that they can manipulate, that will do what they’re told as long as they get to sing on TV and experience fame.”

“No one wants to make music, they just want to be famous.” Ben agreed, plucking lightly at the guitar strings, playing a pretty tune. Len grunted.

“Anyway, what have you done today?” He asked, eyeing the guitar.

“I wrote a new song. Do you want to hear it?”

“Of course I do.” Len sat back in his seat, fixing his attention on his son, listening intently to his words and watching his fingers move deftly across the fret board.

It was well written, beautifully crafted and the complete opposite of the trash that made up the top 40. Ben didn’t care about fame, he just wanted to write music that meant something to him. Len smiled as the song came to an end, this is what we were fighting for, he thought to himself.

The Punk Wars

The Punk Wars

A short story inspired by the song Did I fight in the punk wars for this? By Henry Priestman.

It was Saturday evening. Len left his dinner plate in the sink, closed the door on the kitchen and settled himself into his arm chair by the fire.

He pointed the zapper at the TV and pressed the red button, the sudden glare from the screen illuminating the small living room.

The smiley people in shiny suits and sparkling dresses were grinning manically at him. Len curled his lip and grunted.

Four serious looking people with perfect hair and white teeth, were arguing amongst themselves while a nervous looking teenager waited with a frozen grin on his face that made him look like he was in pain.

It seemed like a decision of absolute importance was being made.

“I just don’t get it.” The stony faced man said, causing the other three to react with varying degrees of shock and outrage.

“How can you say that?” The former pop star, sat next to him, asked.

“It’s like karaoke. And not even good karaoke.” He argued.

The radio DJ at the end of the row held his hands out in disbelief.

“Last week you were complaining he was too gimmicky, this week he’s bad karaoke! What is it you want exactly?”

“Well, I want to win, obviously.” The judge laughed.

Len shook his head as he pointed the zapper at the tv.

“It’s all just a game to you isn’t it?” He asked the man on the screen, before changing the channel, replacing the singing talent show with another early evening light entertainment show in which the latest pop sensation was performing their latest hit. A row of five boys executing synchronised dance moves, took it in turns to stare into the camera with sparkling eyes and wide grins while singing a rearranged, slow cover version of a once classic tune.

The front door opened and slammed shut. Len looked up at the living room door expectantly as his son, Ben, walked in carrying a guitar case.

“Hey pops.” He smiled. Len flickered his eyebrows in acknowledgement, “what are you watching?”

“Nothing, it’s all rubbish.” He flicked through the channels again, scowling when the talent show appeared again.

“They’re singing one of your songs tonight.” Ben told him.

“Well I’ll look forward to that royalty cheque.” He shrugged.

Len had written a few hits in the 80s that were always being included in best of compilations and often got an airing on radio.

“Come on, dad, this show isn’t so bad.”

“It isn’t too good either. It’s ruined music, I mean really, did I come through the punk wars for this rubbish?” Len pointed an accusatory finger at the TV.

“So what was it like when you were starting out?”

Len turned off the TV and turned to his son.

“I always wanted to be in a band when I was younger. I used to sing in front of the mirror, practising my stance and even my between song banter, and of course, my gracious acceptance of applause.” He smiled remembering it.

“I’ve done that a fair few times.” Ben laughed, standing up and peering into the mirror above the fireplace and holding his fist in front of his mouth. Len stood up next to him.

“Mine was always more like this,” he said, curling his top lip slightly and raising an eyebrow, “anyway, there was a teacher at school who could play a few instruments and he agreed to teach me during my lunch hour. I learned a chord or three on his guitar until I saved up enough to buy my own and then I started writing a few songs. Back then it was all over dramatic, ten minute guitar solos, so there didn’t seem to be much use for my three chord wonders.”

“So when did you first join a band?” Ben asked, unlocking his guitar case and lifting his instrument onto his knee.

“Well, in 1975, I went to art school, that’s how all the best bands got started back then, we played all the local bars and got a bit of a name for ourselves. We recorded a few songs and one of our mates started his own record label to release them for us. Nothing huge, but we sold a few. I mean, it’s all part of the rich history of the era now, so you can still buy them on eBay for quite a tidy sum. It was a refreshing change to hear short sharp catchy tunes instead of the disco or prog rock. You had the singers who just sang what they were told to sing, and rockers with long hair that knew all the chords and crammed them all in to one song that lasted forever. And then there was us. We weren’t being told what to sing or what to say, we were telling our own story, there were no minors or flats, it was short, simple and to the point.”

“So what happened?”

“A record company came along and signed us up, we went to New York to record our album.”

“Really? That sounds a bit corporate.” Ben teased him.

Len rolled his eyes and sighed, “in our defence, the punk scene was really happening in New York. It was the place to be and we embraced the chance to travel, but yes, the corporates wanted to control us, copy our model and turn it into the next big thing. Suddenly they were putting together bands that sounded like us. Punk became like a brand and instead of fighting the system we’d given them the blueprints to create a more mainstream version of us that made them loads of money while diluting our message.”

“The bastards fought back, huh?” Ben strummed a melancholic chord on his guitar.

“Yep, and they’ve been winning ever since. Look at this shit.” Len waved a dismissive hand at the TV, “music is dead. They broke it. They care more about tv ratings. People think they’re choosing what makes it by voting, but it’s all rigged. Of all the thousands of people that audition for this show, they cherry pick the ones that fit with their model, that they can manipulate, that will do what they’re told as long as they get to sing on TV and experience fame.”

“No one wants to make music, they just want to be famous.” Ben agreed, plucking lightly at the guitar strings, playing a pretty tune. Len grunted.

“Anyway, what have you done today?” He asked, eyeing the guitar.

“I wrote a new song. Do you want to hear it?”

“Of course I do.” Len sat back in his seat, fixing his attention on his son, listening intently to his words and watching his fingers move deftly across the fret board.

It was well written, beautifully crafted and the complete opposite of the trash that made up the top 40. Ben didn’t care about fame, he just wanted to write music that meant something to him. Len smiled as the song came to an end, this is what we were fighting for, he thought to himself.

The Punk Wars

Awesome lady: Danielle Austen

My fellow Xcite author, Danielle Austen, took me under her wing and gave me a heads up as to what to expect when I was preparing for my first novel to be published and we’ve stayed in touch ever since. Turns out we’ve got a lot more in common than just our publishing company. So meet fellow nerd, Dannielle…

Aside from writing erotica, the prophecy girl trilogy was a fantasy story set in the world of magic. What inspired you to choose that setting?

The stories I enjoy (whether in books, TV, film or videogames) tend to combine action, adventure, character drama and a tinge of sci-fi and/or supernatural; so it was a blend of genres I also gravitated towards in my own writing. I chose magic in particular because unlike things like vampires and werewolves and spaceships, I had complete creative freedom. I was able to create my own rules without having to worry about existing genre tropes, and do whatever I wanted within those confines. It also gave me the flexibility to escalate the scale of the magic throughout the trilogy; from Angelito’s illusions in The Magician’s Lover through to Cereza terraforming an entire planet in The Ancient’s Destiny.

I couldn’t help picturing Derren Brown when I read about Angelito. Are any of the characters based on real people/celebrities?

Ha! I completely understand picturing Derren Brown! Alas, he was not the inspiration for Angelito; however a different celebrity was, on a physical level at least. He’s not the only one; Dmitri, Jason, Frank, Tera, Tengu and a couple of others have their appearance inspired by actors and musicians and others. Some characters such as Cammie are inspired by people I know in the real world, and others like Cereza and Zee are entirely new creations who just appeared in my head. In any case, I don’t like revealing specifically who my characters are based on – it can interfere with a reader’s existing mental image, and there is no “right” way to imagine any of my characters.

What’s your favourite video game?

I’d played games before, but almost 15 years ago I played a game which gave me cause to buy my first ever console – Halo: Combat Evolved. It gave me such a sense of awe and wonder that I’d never experienced before, and it was the first time a game really felt like what it was trying to portray – I really felt like a supersoldier alone on a strange alien planet. The whole series is great – I lost almost two full years of my life to Halo: Reach alone, and Cortana’s death in Halo 4 had me in floods of tears – but the first game has a particularly special place in my heart. Hubby & I recently bought ourselves an Xbox One and so far the only game we own on it is the Halo collection – I basically have a £300 Halo machine!

When you’re not writing, how do you spend your free time?

I have a full-time job which sucks up a lot of my time; on top of that I also have routine housework to get through, some pretty extensive home renovations to sort out, time to devote to hubby, and a regular exercise routine to keep up. Sometimes my life can be a little like an exercise in spinning plates – but it’s not a complaint; I would much rather be too busy than bored! When I do get some time out I like travelling, watching good TV with the hubster, playing videogames, and going out running.

Have you always wanted to be an author? What made you choose erotica specifically?

I’d always had a creative side that I needed to release; my problem for many years was trying to find the right avenue for it. I tried being in a band, but had the small problem of being unable to sing or play any instruments! Then I tried screenwriting after having an idea for a movie, but the whole process was infuriating; I found that having to write in the correct and very specific format just got in the way of the actual writing. But after I read Juliet Hastings’ “The Hand of Amun” – for me the greatest erotic novel ever written – my mind exploded with possibilities. Here was something I could actually do! I already had a couple of English qualifications so I knew how to write, and I found the characters and the stories came easily – plus writing erotica gave me a great creative outlet for some of my issues and weird neuroses.

Not too long ago I was having a whinge to hubby about some of the negative aspects of writing erotica and he asked why I don’t just write in another genre – but honestly, I love writing cross-genre erotica. It’s the only thing I feel compelled to write. I don’t think there are many other authors writing the kind of erotica I write; I’m writing the erotica I would want to read, and as an added bonus there’s the possibility that others will enjoy it too. It’s not a financially rewarding genre and I’m never going to be a household name but I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Who’s your favourite author?

If we’re talking erotica, then it’s Juliet Hastings by a country mile. I don’t think she’s active anymore, but the books she did write were all phenomenal. But if you mean on a normal day-to-day basis then there are three authors who never let me down – Philip K. Dick, Kurt Vonnegut and Stephen King. It’s tough for me to pick just one as a lot of it is mood-dependent, but if push came to shove I’d probably fall on the side of Vonnegut. He was one of the most unique authors the world has ever seen, and probably the only author to ever make me alternately laugh and cry in the space of three paragraphs.

What’s your strategy for surviving a zombie apocalypse?

I assume that getting my claws into Daryl Dixon isn’t an option?! I’m a big fan of The Walking Dead and zombie movies in general so I feel pretty well-educated on this front. If the world’s gone to hell then I’m off to Hawaii; it’s my favourite place in the world, it’s really remote so it’s nigh-on impossible for hordes of zombies to stumble into, and if there are already zombies there Hawaii has pretty lax gun control laws so guns and ammo won’t be hard to come across – and I know from past experience that I’m a dab hand with a semi-automatic rifle! Granted, getting halfway across the world in the midst of a zombie apocalypse could be tricky but I’ll manage it somehow – if there’s one thing erotica has taught me, it’s that the world is full of yacht-owning billionaires who are just desperate for the love of a woman who likes being spanked!

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Awesome lady: Danielle Austen

Free ebooks and the changing face of publishing

I had a sobering thought this morning. I was on Facebook and read a post from someone detailing all the free books she had downloaded from the Kindle store.

I had a little moment of sadness. As a consumer Amazon is great, everything is cheap, there’s bargains to be had everywhere. And as a reader, the promise of downloading more Ebooks for free than I could possibly ever read in my lifetime is a treat indeed.

Then I thought; what will happen when authors realise that there’s just no point in writing. It’s not a sustainable career option, one cannot make a decent living from writing novels anymore.

I thought, what will readers do then? When no new novels are being written? I had a ridiculous, almost satisfied feeling, rather like cutting off your nose to spite your face. Yes, while readers delight in getting free books now, not caring at all that this free books model is hugely undervaluing the time and effort that authors have taken in writing their novel, what will they do when this model collapses and there are no new novels?

But then I realised: with so many free books available, even if no one ever writes another novel again there’s still more than enough books to last several lifetimes.

How depressing.

The average employee works 1440 hours a year and earns £26500.

I spent 500 hours writing Inspired by Night and earned a sales royalty of £14.90. No advance, no other income associated with the novel. I’ve spent at least 10 times that amount on marketing.

I work full time (earning massively below the average wage), and my spare time is spent on the, apparently thankless, task of novel writing.

918 people downloaded my novel, when it first came out, but only 38 of those people paid – the frankly bargain price of £1.83 – the other 880 got it free and will probably never read it.

Still. We write because we love it, right??

The Amazon way has created a monster. Traditionally published authors are competing with a seemingly unlimited number of self published authors. Some who take it seriously and some that don’t even seem to bother with proofreading. Inbetween that is the rise of independent publishers that basically use the self publishing tools to publish other writers. They own the novels but the author is still the one doing all the publicity, with no budget and no control over running sales or special offers.

Getting a publishing deal now is probably easier than it’s ever been. Which massively undervalues the time and effort that has gone into writing.

I realise that I’m published by one of these independent publishers. I’ve benefitted from the current model. I’ll never know whether my novel was good enough to attract an agent and get it in front of a major publisher, because I didn’t have the self confidence to believe it was good enough. But on the other hand, this show of faith by Xcite has given me the self belief that I can write novels worthy of publication, which has made me spend another few hundred hours hunched over the keyboard writing another novel.

If I’d written Inspired, published it myself and sold ten copies, I’d have left it at that. I wouldn’t claim to be an author. I’d have got the writing bug out of my system.

But this way has lead me to think I’m good enough to be published, I’m thinking about getting an agent – as if that’s as easy as saying ‘hey, you can be my agent’ – I’m dreaming about traditional publishers, being interviewed on This Morning and touring branches of Waterstones doing book readings to my legion of fans.

And maybe that’s still possible. Or maybe the current print on demand and ebook model means independent publishers are just less fussy about what they put their name to and in real life I’d be buried under a sea of rejection letters from agents.

I would love to be a full time author but sadly, while the market is saturated and the public demand more for less, it’s likely that, despite being a published author, it will never be my full time career.

Free ebooks and the changing face of publishing