((Please note that the images of Scrivener below all show the desktop version, not the iOS version. They are also affiliate links. If you decide to buy, make sure you choose the right version for you – mac or windows. Or you should be able to choose ‘both’ during the checkout process. The iOS version is only available through the official app store.))

Scrivener for the iPad was released yesterday (20 July 2016) and I’ve been using it now for 24 hours. Not full- stop, you understand. I did take break beaks to recharge batteries, both mine and the iPad’s.

I also used Scrivener for an hour or so on my iPhone, to test the experience.

If you’re not familiar with Scrivener, it is the world’s best software for writing long projects, especially books. It is used and loved by writers all over the world. It started out on Macs, after being created by a writer who was frustrated that none of the word processing tools he could find really worked the way that he wanted to. So he learnt to code and created his own application. It quickly became a sensation among the Apple-loving writing crowd, and eventually spread to Windows too. [continue reading…]

Day after day the old man sat and listened. That’s all he did. He heard birds sing, the tinkling of water and wind-chimes, the crying of babies and mothers lulling them towards sleep. He noticed people working – sawing wood, drawing water from the well with a sploosh, leading animals towards pasture with the clonk clonk of bells around the necks of goats.

The closer he listened, the clearer sounds became and the more they enveloped him. He drifted into them, eyes closed, and began to dissolve from sight until he faded away entirely, though so slowly that no one even noticed he was gone.

I asked about him, but no one in the village could recall the old man, or remember his name, and some weren’t even sure that he was ever there.

Perhaps he’s sitting still, in the shade of the big tree, on hot summer afternoons, listening, only listening.

My latest novel, a fantasy adventure set in a mysterious celtic underworld and aimed at young adults and adults alike, is now on sale.

Neverwhere meets Beowulf

Monster Hunters of the Undermire is available in ebook format on Amazon worldwide (US link, UK link). It will be launched onto other ebook platforms over the next few weeks.

The book is also available in paperback. It is on sale now, available direct here. The paperback will also be available on Amazon sites ‘within 3 to 5 business days’ and across wider distribution channels in ‘6-8 weeks’.

You can read more about the book here.

And sample the opening chapters here.

He built a bonfire of his life. Memories and dreams, scraps and tales, line of poems never finished. Photographs, address books, letters – let them burn.

The flames roared through the paperwork, sending flecks of black ash spiralling into the sky, scattering across the field like idea seeds. He feared they might cross-fertilise, take root and come back to haunt him.

As the pages crinkled in the heat, he saw a bunch of words on a sheet. He thrust his hand into the flames and grabbed it, pulled it free. Though scorched and singed with rage, this page he saved.

I met him for the first time on Waterloo Bridge on a blustery autumn afternoon with the sun sinking behind the glass and concrete cliffs of London’s skyline. He wore a scarf, unnecessary on what was a mild day for the time of year, and I knew at first sight that there was a strong streak of vanity lurking beneath the hard-headed, tough minded veneer.

His greeting was gruff – I expected no less – a curt hello, followed by: “You’re the new girl, then?”

“New woman, actually,” I said.

He nodded, smirked, and had the decency to apologise. “Should know better, get it right one of these days.”

He was, in truth, exactly as described: a befuddled genius, with the looks of a film star, the body of a god, and the moral dexterity of a French philosopher. Trouble, in other words. A man who exuded charm and knew it.

Luckily, I was immune.

Should she tell the truth? He’d be angry, wouldn’t understand or forgive. And he’d never forget. It would all be over and he would suffer more than her.

She glanced at him. He didn’t look back but his lip quivered. It seemed so long since they had kissed. What was wrong? He couldn’t suspect.

Should she say something?

No, she told herself, protect him from the pain.

The tribes from the deep jungle were fleeing their ancient homes, heading for the mountains. “Why now?” I asked the old-timer. “The logging has stopped. We’ve promised to leave them alone.”

The man sucked on his teeth and rang sweat from the hem of his cotton shirt. “River’s dying,” he said. “No disguising it. Sickness is on it. They’re closer to it, sense it more than us.” He turned and stared into the distance.

“The pollution can’t be that bad,” I told up him. “Downstream, sure, but not here.”

The old-timer shook his head. “Not pollution. Deeper than that. It’s like the Earth’s blood has turned bad. Septic. Turning on itself.”

I stared at him for a moment, half expecting a cheeky smile or subdued chuckle, but they didn’t come. The man was serious. “There’s a rational explanation,” I told him, “has to be.” I walked away and heard him whistling to himself, a mournful tune that reminded me of graveyards.

Next day I visited the tribe we’ve been studying, but they had disappeared, and left nothing but footprints.

Lear hated himself for thinking this way – but his father lingered long beyond the time. “He should have gone by now, give me the throne,” he urged the stone walls of his room.

He consoled himself with hunting, drinking, wild days and nights, long parties to the dawn with the royal entourage and hangers-on. “Be not so dissolute,” his father urged. “Be like a king.” Time enough for that. Should he hasten the day?

His mother stared at him sometimes, as if she read his thoughts. Did she crave power? Pah! Women could not rule. He’d marry soon, Lear told himself, and raise a brace of sons to help him bear the burdens of the crown.

As he toured the small-holding he glimpsed the green plastic of a watering can, barely visible through a tangle of weeds. He put on gloves and pulled away nettles and long grass. The spout was broken and it was half buried by soil, shifted into position by a tribe of ants which scurried furiously to protect their eggs. Beside it lay a pile of stones and rocks, and three empty plant pots.

He stood back to examine the scene. What hopes had ended here, in this forgotten corner of the orchard? Had a life been cut short? Had an emergency called the gardener away, or a love affair? Or had they simply lost interest, half way through?

Should he pick up where his forerunner had left off, or leave the scene untouched, as a monument to lost dreams?

He’d decide tomorrow, he told himself, or the next day. Or the next.