Not in Their Right Minds (short story)

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This is a short story I wrote after a strange dream, featuring my partner and a friend of ours. I used it as an outline, but even though it was quite detailed for a dream, I had to fill in a lot of details. I changed my own character’s name because it felt strange writing myself into a story and she’s a much more successful version of me.

The story is never going to win any awards, but I’m sharing it here to show people that inspiration can come from anywhere, even bizarre lockdown dreams.

Amber slammed down the phone. So what if it broke? It wasn’t being useful to her. All she could do was watch the live footage of the two women, who had been best friends for most of their adult lives, as they now turned on one another. To be fair to the one who wasn’t been mind controlled, she had taken a few punches before defending herself and only after her friend came at her with the lamp. She had no choice but to defend herself, as the lamp was hurtled towards her head. She picked up the jagged pieces and held them out in front of her. The mind-controlled friend carried on charging, although tears streamed down her face as the only sign that she didn’t want to do this. Neither of them did, but the two of them grabbed at each other and felt to the ground, out of Amber’s sight.

She heard cries and shouts, then the not-brainwashed friend stood up, still holding onto a broken lamp fragment, covered in blood, matching the coating on her hand and half of her arm.

“I had to do it, she wouldn’t stop,” the woman gasped between sobs, then the connection terminated.

Amber’s phone beeped and the message flashed up on the screen.

You can’t stop this.


Three months earlier

“What about a true crime podcast?” Amber suggested.

Her partner, Andy looked at her, thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “you’d have to come on board for that.”

Amber nodded, not wanting to take on another project, but after her recent crime novel had done so well, she understood why Andy would think it a good idea for her to get involved in the true crime podcast.

“Okay, but it’s your project with Anthony. How about if I came in for the last ten minutes of each episode?”

It was agreed, but Amber had no idea of the events that were about to unfold.

The first episode went better than any of them expected, getting over a thousand listeners. Most of them were from Anthony’s hometown of Blackpool.

“We should record a live episode in Blackpool,” he suggested.

So, that’s how they ended up in Blackpool, surrounded by a live audience of over 200 people, crammed inside a performance tent, set up outside with Blackpool tower as the backdrop and a view of the beach in front of them.

“What do you think happened to Charlene?” Andy asked Amber during her ten-minute slot at the end of the podcast.

“I believe they had the killers, but proving it is another thing altogether.”

Anthony invited questions from the audience.

“Do you think Blackpool has a problem with predators like those alleged to have murdered her?” a woman asked. Her accent was Southern, though Amber couldn’t place it.

“No more than any other place,” she responded.

Anthony, Andy and Amber spoke to a few of the audience members afterward. Anthony seemed to know a lot of them, but a man who Amber didn’t recognise approached her.

“I read your book,” he said.

“Thanks.” She looked around for the radio DJ who had offered to interview the three of them after the podcast.

The man took a copy out of his bag and asked her to sign it. She took the pen and was about to ask for his name when Andy tapped her on the shoulder.

“We’ve got the interview with Radio Wave.” He guided her away towards Anthony who was already talking to a man who held out a large microphone. She was aware of someone calling her name, but it was distant and she became distracted when the interviewer waved her and Andy over.

“Anthony tells me the podcast was your idea,” he said, holding the mic in front of her.

“I suggested it to Andy, then ended up getting involved because of the book …”

“Yes, Crimes Against Humanity, are you thinking of doing a sequel? Possibly set in Blackpool? It’s great to have a podcast recorded in Blackpool like this, and of course, Anthony is well known in the local community, so if you set a book here that could only heighten our profile.”

Amber nodded, but wondered how talking about murders in Blackpool could ever be a good thing for the local community. Everyone seemed to be lapping up the media attention though, so who was she to argue?




After a lot of travelling between Blackpool and Manchester, Amber was considering quitting the podcast. Her book had become more popular, while Anthony was inundated with more freelance work and public speaking engagements than he had time for, so had to turn some of them down. Andy suggested he continued the podcast alone, monthly, instead of weekly, interviewing experts about unsolved crimes. It soared to the top of the podcast charts.

The three of them began their separate projects. Amber was doing a book tour in New York when she got the call that changed everything.

“There’s been a murder,” Andy said.

“And?” She wasn’t sure why he was telling her. There was nothing she could do about it.

“And the message pinned to the body was addressed to you.”

“What did it say?”

“Amber Solomon won’t be able to ignore me anymore, not after this. How is this for a crime against humanity?”

Amber gulped.

“That’s not even the strange part of this,” Andy said. He paused as if considering how much to say.

“What is it?”

The victim who had the note pinned to his chest; the forensics are saying there is no sign of him putting up a struggle or even being attacked at all. He pinned the note to his own chest and slit his own throat.”

Amber book the next flight home, unsure why she was bothering. If there was no proof of a murder, the guy must have killed himself. Her agent had warned her part of the journey to success might be paved with the occasional fanatic, but nothing had prepared her for the uneasy feeling that made her want to return home to Andy and try to make sense of what happened to this guy.

Walking into the flat she shared with Andy did nothing to decrease that uneasiness. She called out his name.

Where was he? He knew she was coming home early because of the recent murder, and it was after midnight. She expected to hear him snoring from the bedroom, but the flat was eerily quiet, other than the sound of the humming from the fridge and freezer as Amber walked past the kitchen and towards the bedroom.

She hesitated before switching on the light. If he was in bed, she would wake him, but at least she would know he was there. Her hand reached up and pressed the switch, lighting up the room to reveal an empty bed. That’s when she picked up her landline to call him. It rang out. Amber was about to try again when her phone rang from her bag where it still hung from her shoulder. She reached inside and saw the message with the link, meeting I.D and password.

A second message popped up on the screen.

Log in from your laptop now. Maybe you can save a woman from being murdered by her lifelong best friend. If not, don’t feel too bad. My mind is stronger than yours.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Amber asked out loud as she rushed into the study and booted up her laptop. Whatever it meant, it wasn’t good. Even before using the meeting details to log in, her heart was racing along with all the thoughts in her mind.

Two women sat in a room. They must be in their early forties. One was blonde and the other a brunette. The blonde looked at Amber and spoke.

“I don’t know who you are, or why he’s doing this, but Claire won’t talk and I’m sure he did something to her.”


“The man, he was here. He’s gone now, I think, but he told us to log in here and wait for you. That you might be able to help.”

Amber grabbed at her phone, trying Andy’s number once more. When that rang out again, she made her way through the numbers in the phone, dialling Anthony’s number next. That rang out too.

“And he said it’s no use calling them. They’re tied up, or something like that.”

Amber slammed the phone down.

All she could do was watch the live footage of the two women, who (if the person behind the messages was telling the truth) had been best friends for most of their lives, turning on one another.

My mind is stronger than yours.

Those words came back to Amber. Was it mind control? No. That didn’t make any sense, but the friend, Claire punched the blonde woman in her face and chest several times, grabbing a lamp from somewhere out of the camera’s range and trying to hit her with it. That’s when the blonde must have decided she had no choice but to defend herself. As the lamp was hurtled towards her head, she stopped trying to reason with her friend and instead, picked up the jagged pieces and held them out in front of her. The mind-controlled woman carried on charging, although tears streamed down her face as the only sign that she didn’t want to do this. Neither of them did, but they both grabbed at each other and fell to the ground, out of sight from Amber.

She heard cries and shouts, then the not brainwashed friend stood up, still holding onto a broken lamp fragment, covered in blood, matching the coating on her hand and half of her arm.

“I had to do it, she wouldn’t stop,” the woman said between sobs and wheezing, then the connection terminated.

Amber’s phone beeped and the message flashed up on the screen.

You can’t stop this.

“Then why make me watch?” she yelled at the screen.

Moments later, the response came back.

I wanted you to know, this is all your fault and there is nothing you can do to stop any of it.

Amber felt a chill run all the way down her body as the realisation washed over her; this freak was watching her from somewhere. She slammed the laptop shut. Her phone pinged again.

I’m not watching from the laptop.

The phone? Amber wasn’t sure, but she shut it down anyway. Then the landline rang.

She darted into the bedroom and picked it up hoping it was Andy.


“It’s not your mobile either.” The voice was male, not too deep and it felt familiar, though Amber couldn’t place where she had heard it before.

“Who is this?”

“You know that I could make you hit your head against the wall until you lose consciousness?”

She opened her mouth to argue, but having just witnessed the live footage, she found it difficult to doubt him.


“That is the question, isn’t it?” he asked. “But I think I’ll let you work all that out for yourself.”

“How am I meant to do that?” she wondered out loud.

“Start with the place you shunned me.”

“Shunned you?” she asked, but the line went dead. “Bastard!” She remembered him saying he wasn’t using her mobile to watch her, and began looking around the study, then the bedroom without finding anything. She switched her phone back on and tried calling Andy and Anthony again, with no response.

She could call the police, but where would she start? No, this was something she would have to tell them in person. She grabbed her coat and bag then left the flat, almost forgetting to lock up after herself. A bitter laugh lodged in her throat as she returned and locked the door. Clearly, the maniac had already gotten inside to bug her flat and spy on her. Locking the door was unlikely to stop him if he wanted to return.

An hour later, Amber was sitting in the waiting room of her local police station. She had done her best to explain the situation to the woman at the desk, but doubt had crept onto her face, probably wondering if Amber was drunk. A policeman had spoken to her briefly though and agreed to look into the murder over the video conference software. Amber tapped her foot as she waited, wondering how long this would take. She racked her mind for where she had heard the voice before and what he meant by the place she shunned him.

She found herself thinking about the live podcast in Blackpool, feeling like that had something to do with it. Then it hit her.

“The Guy,” she murmured to herself, recalling the man who had asked her to sign his book, but she hadn’t because Andy reminded her the radio station wanted an interview.

Amber stood and raced out of the police station, getting in her car and heading towards Blackpool. There was no plan, so when she arrived she sat on a bench near Blackpool Tower, watching the waves crashing into each other, from a safe distance. If this was the guy who wanted his book signed, then this was the place where in his mind, he had been shunned him.

Her phone rang.


“You remember me then, but Blackpool is a big place. Where do you think your friends might be?”

“How should I know? Just tell me where they are.”

“That’s no way to talk to the only person who can ensure your co-hosts get out of this alive.”

Amber took a deep breath and lowered her voice as she asked, please, tell me where they are.”

“That’s better, much more reasonable. Now if you recall one of my favourite scenes in your book. What happened to the victim at the end?”

Amber had to think. It was over two years since she wrote it. There was a scene with the killer. He held someone hostage and tied them up on the beach, waiting for the tide to come in. The detective didn’t make it in time and the woman drowned.

“I can hear that brain of yours. Tick, tick, tick. Do you think this story can end any differently to how it did with your book?”

“Shit,” Amber exclaimed. The beach was bigger than she had time to search before the tide would come in.

In the book, the killer tied the victim up underneath the North Pier. What if this was a trick and the maniac had gone for somewhere nearer to the other end of the beach to throw her off? Or maybe Andy and Anthony weren’t tied up on the beach at all. She couldn’t risk it though. She had to check, after firing off a text message to her agent.

You warned me there might be some obsessed fans, Well I think one of them has tied up Andy and Anthony on the beach, like in my book.

She began running. Her agent had lived and breathed the book for over a year and probably knew the plot better than Amber did. She would understand the significance of being tied up on the beach and hopefully, be able to convince the police. Amber couldn’t rely on that though. There was too much at stake, so she forced her legs to move faster along the wet sand. The tide would be in soon. She couldn’t allow herself to think about what that would mean if this guy was telling the truth.

When she saw slight movement under the pier she wondered if it might just be a homeless person sleeping under there, but as she neared, Amber could see it was Anthony tied to a beam of the pier. She ran the last few steps and wasted a few minutes untying him. The lack of light didn’t help and her fingers found the knots fiddly.

“Where’s Andy?” she asked.

He made a sound, alerting her to the fact that a sash had been tied around his mouth as a gag.

After releasing his arms and legs, she removed the sash and asked again.

Anthony took in a deep breath, before he replied, “down there,” pointing to further along, below the pier.


Amber realised that stretch of the beach was already immersed in water. She saw something just above it.

“Get help,” she yelled at Anthony, before she ran in that direction.

“Andy,” she exclaimed. He murmured something through his gag. He was already shoulder deep in the sea. Amber removed the gag and dived under the water to untie his bindings. If she had thought it was difficult enough to free Anthony, then this was much worse. She couldn’t see a thing, not like in the films where people dive under the water with their eyes wide open. Amber had to keep hers forced shut, while feeling around for the knots, only making a little leeway before having to come up for air before starting all over again. It seemed like forever before she finally managed to free his legs. She was aware of him calling out for someone to help them, but didn’t have time to wait for anyone to hear. Amber began to untie his hands. That was still awkward with the water crashing against them both but easier than the binding on his legs had been.

It almost seemed like a dream when the knots were released and Andy was free. She laughed in relief and opened her mouth to suggest they get off the beach before the tide was all the way in. She was barely able to stay above the water, even with Andy now holding onto her.

A wave slightly bigger than the others was hit by a strong gust of wind, sweeping her off her feet and away from Andy. He reached out to her, but wasn’t quick enough as the sea seemed to drag her away. Andy lost sight of her as a lifeboat arrived, helping him aboard. Despite several searches for Amber, she was never found.

A funeral was held after she was presumed dead. Hundreds of people attended, which is why nobody paid any attention to the man who stood at the back, clutching a copy of “Crimes Against Humanity” while smiling sadly at the way things had worked out.




Finding Something to Write About in Lockdown


Before lockdown, writers who had other jobs struggled to find the time to write. Now, many of those who are off work may still be struggling, but for different reasons. There is more time, but it’s harder to concentrate. So, if you no longer have to go to work, or even if you do, how can you make the most of whatever time you have spare each day?


Stop trying to write for a while

If you need inspiration, sitting in front of your laptop and staring at a blank screen is unlikely to provide that. There may be times when you have to sit there for a while as you wait for your brain to cooperate, yet you need to give yourself something to work with.

Lockdown can limit where we get our inspiration from. If you go online, everyone is talking about the same thing. That might explain why so many writers have written something inspired by the pandemic and the lockdown. That’s fine, it makes a great outlet and can help you to process and cope with everything. I’m even publishing some of my lockdown poems, but that doesn’t mean people will want to read them.

You’ll want to write something else eventually. So talk to friends and family, even if it’s just on the phone or over Zoom. Watch your favourite TV show or discover a new one. Go for a walk, if you don’t have any health conditions that put you in the at-risk group. Read a book or listen to a song. Inspiration can come from something a friend says to you, a line in song or song, something you see outside or something in TV show. That doesn’t mean you should plagiarise someone else’s work. Just use the idea as a starting point and turn it into something completely different.


Should I change my work in progress to include the pandemic?

This is a question I’ve seen people ask and some writers have stopped what they were writing, or feel like they have to go back and rewrite it to include recent events. Obviously, what you write is up to you. However, reading is a form of escapism, so many people won’t want to read a fictionalised version of what is happening right now. Another thing to consider is how much time it takes to write, edit and publish. For me, if I continue with any of the novels I’ve already started on, it could take between six and eight months to complete and publish one of them, longer if I try to get a publisher instead of self-publishing it myself. I’m not saying life will be like it was by then, but I hope things will be better than they are now. Also, it’s fiction, so it doesn’t have to guess the future. You can create your own fictional future and provide an escape for yourself while writing it, which may help you to write the world the way you want it to be.


Join workshops

I’ve attended some online workshops. If you join writing groups on social media and ask around, you should be able to find some.

I’ve not written anything I can submit to publishers or journals from this, but it has helped to keep me writing, and I’ve been inspired by the other writers. If nothing else, you get to (virtually) meet with other writers. I’ve found it more of a social experience than the virtual spoken word nights I’ve attended.


Still finding it difficult?

Writing anything might seem difficult at the moment, but take it in bite-size sessions. Start with half an hour a day, or even ten minutes if that’s too much. Write whatever comes to mind. It might be nonsense, but just set a timer and write until you’re out of time, Read through it later. Looks for a line, or a few words that could inspire to write something. Then use that to create a poem or the beginning of a short story. You can even use dreams to get ideas for a poem or story. If you keep a notebook by your bed, you can jot down any dreams you have and use those as inspiration. Many people are having bizarre dreams at the moment. In another blog post, I’ll be sharing a short story I wrote, inspired by one of my bizarre dreams.

A Piece of “Erotic Fiction” I Wrote





I recently had a rejection – nothing new there then. However, this was different to my other rejections. It contained feedback.. Apparently, my writing wasn’t erotic enough to arouse readers. I was going for something more subtle and intense. It reminded me that I did write an erotic story a few years ago though. This was around the time I first got a Kindle and read a lot of free books about werebears (don’t ask). These always ended up with the female lead and the male lead getting together, even though the woman would resist at first, but the guy just wouldn’t take no for an answer. The “erotic” scenes were well over the top and bordering on abuse in some cases. So, I wrote an erotic story, to make fun of this. I then ended up going back over some of it and replacing some words with names of Pokémon, because … why not?


I’ve shared an extract below.


I will have to fight to determine whether the world ends or not. Now we’ve met, I realise it’s only a matter of time before the Pokémon battle begins. Although I’m far too distracted by the unfamiliar ache between my legs, as I look down and see an enormous Haunter has appeared.

I quickly spin around and look out of the window feigning an interest in the sky, as I try to prevent the demon from seeing my Electrode. It’s not like I don’t know what an Electrode is, it’s just never happened to me before. My Snorax shouldn’t be reacting this way, especially not to a demon. She walks around me, placing herself between me and the window.

‘My name is Angel,’ she tells me. Her tongue seems to flick in and out of her mouth with each word, and I’m already starting to imagine what else she could do with that tongue. If I was to lose control of myself, I could plunge my own tongue into her mouth and let her taste me, or I could just unzip my trousers and plunge my Haunter into her mouth, until the intense Bulbasaur begins to cease. I shake my head, even as my hand reaches down and rubs against the fabric of my trousers. She grins and I grab my hand with the other, as though it’s not part of me anymore, but now has a mind of it’s own.

I guess she had the same idea as me with choosing her name, and I can’t help but smirk.

‘Damien,’ I manage to say.

‘So the boss says I have to help you in any way you require.’ Her eyes fall to my lustful Alakazam.

‘What?’ I ask, my mind a haze of confusion.

She kneels down in front of me and runs her fingers lightly across the outline of my Pikachu, through the fabric of my ever-tightening suit trousers. They’re going to burst open in a minute if she keeps doing that. I involuntarily thrust my hips towards her. It seems like a battle just to force myself to stop moving. I sit down and cross my legs, hoping that will help. I wish I hadn’t. As an angel I can tolerate a lot of pain, but this is intense.

‘We can’t … we’re not meant to …’ I try to talk, but my mouth refuses to form whole sentences.

‘Then stop me,’ she taunts, before grabbing hold of my right leg and forcefully uncrossing my legs, then burying her head between my legs. She licks and sucks my throbbing Charmander, still through the fabric, but it feels like it’s continuing to get harder and bigger, possibly like it’s evolving and going to force its way into her mouth any second now and there’s nothing I can do to stop my Pokeballs from escaping.



If you fancy listening to someone read it out, you can HERE. This was before I started reading in public. These days, I’d probably just read it myself.


If you want to be a writer, accept you will fail before you succeed

success and failure

The thing about looking at successful writers, or successful people in any field, is they rarely make the headlines or show up on your radar until they’ve made it. This makes them hard to relate to or compare yourself against.

Accepting failure before it happens doesn’t mean giving up or being pessimistic. You can prepare yourself for the silent audience, bad review or unsold book if you accept that at some point it will happen. Think of it as a lesson learnt and something to tick off your list.

The people you look up to, even the ones who aren’t famous but seem to have carved out a market for themselves and are making a success out of doing what they love; they rarely share posts or images of their failures.

I’ve read a few success stories where people just seem to have stumbled into becoming a popular Instagram poet, landing a publishing deal or whatever else. These are either the few exceptions, or they’re not telling you about the time they spent in obscurity and all the rejections they received before that. It gives everyone else an unrealistic image of what success looks like. “Overnight success” usually takes years to achieve.

I’m nowhere near being a successful anything, although I’ve had a few small successes and close calls; such as having a few books accepted by published, almost carving out a full-time career as a copywriter, an almost promising self-published book and a few shorter pieces accepted for paid publication. So, I’m going to share some of my failures and disappointments, to show you that all (or most) of us have them.


Getting published

I had two books accepted for publications in a relatively short space of time. The first went horribly wrong. I was amongst the many authors who never received their royalties before the publisher shut down. The second publisher had better intentions, but is close to shutting its doors as I write this.


Making a living from writing

After trying to make a living for my books, I became a freelance copywriter. It wasn’t ideal, having to write to a set of criteria on subjects I wouldn’t have chosen myself, but I adapted to it. I was given a paid ghostwriter trial for a fiction book and some other freelance writing, and things were starting to build up. Then there was a pandemic and much of my work dried up. Of course the virus is extremely serious and has taken many lives, so I’m glad to be alive, but it doesn’t change the disappointment I felt at getting so close to the dream of making a full-time living as a writer, even if it wasn’t the type of writing I ideally wanted to do.



My years of self-publishing and my two failed publishers taught me a lot, so I used that knowledge to publish and promote my recent novel Ghost of Me. I had pre-orders and reviews (from advance reader copies) before the release date and it all looked promising. Sales dried up quickly when the virus spread and so my book was (understandably) forgotten as people had more important things to think about.


Other failures

Where do I start? There have been so many. These include bad reviews, (some deserved and others from internet trolls and bullies) reading out work to an unresponsive audience (the poems were too subtle for them and they preferred something more direct – it happens, so move on) and trying to build up awareness of my books by running giveaways online. I’ve run a few competitions with few or no entrants. It can be a real awakening when you realise you can’t even give away copies of your own book.


Why do I keep going?

After re-reading that last part I’m asking myself the same question, but I’ve had some successes, however small. I had two publishers who thought my books were worth publishing. Okay, so one of them stole the royalties, but they must have thought they could get enough money from it to be worth their time and effort.

I’ve also had several pieces of writing published (and paid for) even before I started copywriting. I’ve also had some great feedback from the copywriting projects I’ve worked on. Last year, the magazine I created (which I’m sadly putting together the last issue for) was given a place performing poetry at The Festival of Manchester. I could probably mention a few more successes, but this blog post isn’t for me to brag. My point is you keep going by remembering the successes. They may happen less than the failures, but they also mean more when they do happen.


Finding Creativity During Lockdown


I’m not going to claim it’s easy being creative during lockdown. There are the distractions of constant updates coming through on social media and through my phone; more deaths, more government negligence … the list goes on.

However, it helps to look back at what you have done during this time and that is what I’m doing here. At the start of lockdown, I was panicking over losing at least 80% of my paid work, not been eligible for any benefits or grants and generally worrying about my basic survival. Those are big enough distractions, even without the pandemic and lockdown going on in the background.

This morning I found out the audio book version of my novel “Not Human” had gone online. To be fair, I didn’t do much work on this during lockdown. Most of the work was done before and it was a case of waiting for the files to be approved and to be sent to the online retailers. I’m still counting it as an achievement though, especially as it’s my first audiobook.

While I was waiting for this to be approved, I began working with a talented narrator from Canada to adapt my “Ghost of Me” book. I’m now working with her on the changes for that and hopefully, it should be available to buy within the next few months.

Once I accepted that panicking about financial matters wouldn’t improve them, I went back to an unfinished project and completed it, as part of a challenge set by a Facebook Group I’m in. The project was a choose your own adventure book about a writer who does everything wrong. It pokes fun at things that some writers do wrong and at the publishing and book promotion process in general. Working to complete it by a set date, gave me something to focus on and I enjoyed putting it together and creating the images to go with it.

As I usually do NaPoWriMo in April, I decided not to change that this year. Predictably, over half of the poems were about lockdown either directly or indirectly. I applied to a project, pitching the idea of a chapbook of lockdown related poems. While they haven’t sent me a rejection yet, I plan to self-publish the book later this month if they turn me down. I hope it will help others and they will be able to relate to at least some of it.

So, during lockdown I’ve brought out an audiobook, have another of the way and have short booklets coming out. It’s not so bad when I think of it that way. I’m not suggesting anyone starts and/or completes several projects during lockdown, but having at least one project to focus on might help. Even spending half an hour a day on something can quickly build up over time and before you know it, you’ll have a finished piece of work, or at least the solid start of something. It’s not easy, but trying to create something is much better than getting stressed about things you have no control over. I’ve started using a mindfulness app and listening to Forrest sounds on Spotify. Find whatever helps you feel less stressed and overwhelmed by everything.



Please see the links below (which will be added as they become available) if any of my books I’ve mentioned interest you.


Not Human – Audible link

(Also available on Amazon and iTunes)


You can get a free digital copy of How to Write Wrong: A Choose Your own Adventure Story, from Booksprout in exchange for a honest review. You can be also pre-order a copy on Kindle for just 79p.

Always Darkest Before Dawn: A Collection of Poems from Lockdown can be pre-ordered on Kindle for just 80p

Writing and publishing “Ghost of Me”

ghost promo pic

It started with an abandoned novel

It was maybe 7 or 8 years ago when I began writing a novel in which the main character finds her own dead body in the morgue and realises she’s a ghost and someone killed her. A handful of chapters into it, life took over and even after I studied some creative writing modules as part of my BA degree, I forgot about the novel while I worked on other projects instead.

I found it years later while looking at old files on a memory stick, around the time I was starting my Creative Writing MA. I rewrote and edited what I had so far and used part of it during my first year, towards my assignments. The plan was to continue writing it and to submit the rest as part of my assignments for the second year. For reasons I won’t bore you with, I changed my mind, although I continued to write the novel and completed it before my course finished.


How did I get my ideas?

I can’t recall where the idea of a ghost solving her own murder came from, but as I continued writing, I liked the concept of getting to see what happens after you die and how people may not react in the way you hoped they would. It helped me to develop the characters in a different way to any of the other books I’ve written. I learned that imperfect characters can be better to read about, rather than unrealistic characters who do everything right all the time.

The protagonist, Sarah has been slightly self-absorbed for most of her life, thinking her fiancé (Paul) is the love of her life. After she’s murdered and becomes a ghost, she discovers that’s not true. The real Paul doesn’t match up to her imagined version of him. In fact, quite a few characters are hiding something, which adds to the intrigue of who the killer might be. Her behaviour is young for her age in some ways, because she hasn’t had much life experience.

Sarah isn’t a bad person; she tries to do the right thing and bring her killer to justice. It’s not just about revenge, even though that’s part of it. She genuinely wants to stop more women from being killed. She also wishes more people would mourn her death, not because she wants them to suffer, but because she wants her life to have made enough of an impact for people to miss her when she’s gone. I’m sure most people want that on some level. Nobody wants to be forgotten.


My first reviews of the book

I put more work in the writing and promoting of this book than many of my other books. So, I was so happy (and relieved) when I got my first review.

“This is a rare find. A great paranormal thriller. Spine-tingling and goosebumps throughout the book. Fast paced and action packed storyline. Keeps you from putting this book down.”

Then it was followed up by a second review.

This book has an original storyline with Sarah trying to solve her own murder. This story is well written and intriguing, with murder, ghosts, suspense, and twists and turns.”


It’s only £2.28 on Kindle (or the equivalent in your currency, if you’re not in the UK) so you’ve got nothing to lose? (Except for £2.28)


Book Trailer

If you’d like to find out more, about the book, here’s the book trailer, which I had a lot of fun putting together.