I’m in the middle of updating my blog pages. It’s been an informative process because I realised how many more books I’ve written since the last spring clean.

And, as spring comes, I’m going to include some more blog posts where writers let us into the secrets of where they write. It’s fascinating to see the work spaces and working methods of some of the most excting writers around.


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Christmas Short Story

Here’s wishing you Season’s Greetings and a Happy New Year.

I’m posting here a short story which I hope you enjoy. It’s bitter-sweet, and based on fact.



Margaret, Frank and the two boys moved into their new house in the week before Christmas. It was everything Margaret had ever wanted: a living room with kitchen large enough to eat in, bathroom and separate toilet and three bedrooms so Neil and   Robert could have a bedroom each. Best of all, the living room had two windows. From one window Margaret could glimpse the Downs billowing like a green ocean. From the other she could see a real sea, a stretch of silver coast with busy boats dashing here, there and everywhere.

‘It’s lovely isn’t it Frank,’ she said.

‘If you say so,’ answered Frank.

After tea, Neil retreated to his room and put on his record-player. He was fourteen and from that day on the rest of the family rarely saw him. Robert, who was eight, bubbled with excitement and took a lot of persuading to go to bed. He did so eventually and Margaret went to his room to say goodnight. She sat on his bed and looked around. His bedroom was tiny, little more than a box. It was filled almost entirely by his bed.

‘What do you think of your room?’ she asked anxiously.

‘I love it, Mum.’

‘You love it?’

‘It’s fantastic. It’s like a space-ship. Everything’s close to hand and safe but when I land in the morning I’ll be on a new world.’

Margaret smoothed the wayward hair from his eyes and kissed him goodnight. ‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said softly. For she loved the house every bit as much.

The next day, with the sound of Neil’s music humming in the background and   Robert out exploring the neighbourhood, Margaret made a well-deserved cup of tea and settled into her armchair. She gazed out of the window at the boats skimming along and gave a sigh of deep content. ‘This is perfect,’ she murmured.

‘If you say so,’ said Frank.

The door opened and a strange man walked in. Margaret sat bolt upright and stared at him suspiciously.

‘Can I help you?’ she said in an icy tone.

The man smiled and drew up a chair. He was in his sixties, short and a little overweight, bald except for a small line of greying hair.

‘I’ve come to see how you’re settling in,’ he said.

Margaret’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘We’re settling in very nicely, thank you,’ she said. ‘If it’s any business of yours.’

She glanced at Frank, hoping he would say something. He remained silent.

The stranger smiled again. ‘Well, I’m glad you like it.’

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. At last, unable to bear it any longer, Margaret waved at the window. ‘It’s a lovely view,’ she said. ‘I love the sea and the boats and ships.’

The man glanced out and for a moment looked puzzled. Then he murmured, ‘I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky.’

‘Must you?’ asked Margaret. Then she frowned, for his words invoked a memory which she almost grasped but in the end proved elusive.

The man stood up. ‘I’ll let you settle in peace,’ he said. ‘But I’ll come again tomorrow.’

‘That’s very nice of you,’ said Margaret although she was horrified at the thought.

The man left and Margaret rounded on her husband. ‘You should have said something to him, barging in here like that. A stranger. You should have said something.’

‘If you say so,’ said Frank.

The next day, after lunch, Margaret and Frank were chatting about the boys and at how well they had settled into the new house when the door opened and the bald man came into the room.

He drew up a chair. He beamed at Margaret and placed a box of chocolates on her lap. She stared at them nervously. Why was he giving her chocolates?

‘They’re your favourites,’ he said. ‘A little moving-in gift.’

Margaret did not answer. In truth, she was affronted at the temerity of the stranger. He walked in to her house without a by-your-leave, sat himself in one of her chairs and now presumed to give her chocolates. She shot a glance at Frank who, as usual, did not respond.

The stranger began to hum a little tune to himself. She eyed the chocolates greedily. He was right, she thought, they were her favourites.

The man followed her gaze and held out his hand for the chocolates. ‘Shall I open them for you?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘I’ll have them later.’ She paused and licked her lips. ‘Thank you very much.’

The stranger half rose from his chair and peered out of the window. ‘You’ve got a lovely view,’ he said. ‘Lots of trees and flowers.’

‘It’s the sea I like best,’ Margaret answered. ‘I’ve always loved the sea.’

The man did not answer for a moment, as if he was considering her words deeply.

‘It’s a good job you like the sea considering you were a Wren,’ he said at last. ‘All the ships you must have been on in your time. It’s a bit more peaceful now. No Luftwaffe attacks, no bombings.’

Oh no, thought Margaret, another war bore. It was bad enough living with Frank and his endless tales. She had done her bit as a young girl but she rarely spoke about it to anyone.

She looked at the man. She found it hard to imagine him acting in any military capacity with his chubby frame and bald head. But perhaps he looked different in his youth. She tried to visualise him as a young man in uniform but failed to conjure up any image.

‘Were you in the Forces?’ she asked at last, more out of politeness than any real interest. ‘In the War?’

‘Of course not,’ he said.

Margaret sniffed. Probably a conscientious objector or someone who worked in munitions. Then she did a quick calculation and became a little more forgiving. ‘Maybe you were too old for active service.’

‘Maybe,’ answered the stranger enigmatically.

Another silence fell. ‘Don’t let us keep you,’ Margaret said at last. ‘I’m sure you’ve lots to do.’

‘I expect you’re tired,’ said the man. ‘I’ll be back on the big day.’

He got up and bent towards her. She raised her hand to ward him off. He shook his head, smiled and kissed her hand very gently.

‘The cheek of it,’ she fumed once he had left. She flung the chocolates at Frank. ‘Why didn’t you do something? Why didn’t you say something? It’s always the same with you.’

‘If you say so,’ said Frank.

The next day was Christmas. Once the stockings were opened, Margaret prepared the dinner. Neil moaned about having to eat while Top of the Pops was on but Margaret insisted.   Robert, on the other hand, tucked in to his dinner with his usual gusto. I must watch him, thought Margaret, he’s a bit greedy and he could easily run to fat. They watched the Queen’s speech and then came the big moment, the lengthy ritual of opening presents.

At that precise moment, the stranger walked in, laden down with presents and accompanied by a woman of about his age.

Margaret was furious. How dare he intrude on such an occasion? This was a time for family and nobody else. She meant to say something, to tell him to leave. Yet there was something in his eyes, some gleam of kindly enthusiasm which persuaded her to remain silent.

The stranger and the woman drew up two chairs and pushed gift after gift upon Margaret. She was astonished. Eventually she was prevailed upon to open a few of them. There was a lovely silk scarf and a beautiful bottle of perfume. ‘It’s your favourite,’ said the bald man, ‘spray some on.’

Reluctantly at first, Margaret sprayed a little on her neck. Then she caught the lovely scent; it was indeed her favourite. Delighted, she began to spray herself with wild abandon. The two strangers smiled as they watched and then, chuckling slightly, the bald man leant over and took the bottle gently from her.

‘Have you got anything for him?’ Margaret asked, nodding towards Frank.

The stranger looked pained, presumably at forgetting, and did not answer.

‘Well he can have some of mine,’ said Margaret, passing some gifts to her husband.

A carol service started on the television. The stranger laughed a little and pulled his chair close to Margaret. She looked at him askance but, as it was Christmas, decided to let it go.

They watched as the choristers sang joyously. Then, the strains of ‘Away in a Manger,’ began and the stranger cried with delight and began to sing along with the words.

‘Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,     

The little Lord Jesus lays down his sweet head.’

Margaret turned towards him in astonishment. His voice was familiar but she could not place it. It was high-pitched and unmelodious but somehow it stirred her heart. She had heard it before somewhere, she was certain of it, but she could not recall where.

‘The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes,’ the stranger continued.

Then he turned to Margaret and with increasing volume sang: ‘And little Lord Jesus eats all of the cakes.’

Margaret blinked. Her fingers touched her lips. A naughty boy made those words up and always made her laugh by singing them to her. A naughty boy. She frowned, trying to trap the memory which darted like a running hare in front of her.

Then she turned towards the stranger. ‘You’re my son,’ she said.

Robert reached out for the hand of his mother. It was soft and frail yet she squeezed his with a fierce pressure which surprised him.

‘You used to be young,’ she said. ‘What’s happened to you?’

‘I’ve got a bit older.’

Margaret glanced round her little nursing home room, at the bed with safety rails, at the one window with a view not of the sea but of a garden, at the empty space where she believed Frank, long deceased, still sat beside her. And she smiled.

‘I love you,   Robert,’ she said.

‘I love you too, Mum,’ he said.


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I’m delighted to have as guest blogger the novelist Giles Kristian. Giles has an interest in the Anglo-Saxon period but has also strayed into the English Civil War period, one which is fairly sparsely written about in comparison to its importance in history.

Giles has returned to Anglo-Saxon times with his new book, so why not check out his new bone ‘Wings of the Storm’ (Sigurd Book 3) which came out on 1 December.

Now, let’s see where Giles writes.


Hemingway and Churchill wrote standing up. That’s good enough for me, I decided, thinking of all the man-points I could earn. So I had a carpenter knock me up a little table which sits on top of my desk. Yes, I realise I lost man-points by not doing the woodwork myself. Anyway, turns out my screen was still too low, which is what happens if, like me, you’re not much of a planner. No matter, an Amazon click or two later and…problem solved. image1

A folding stand on top of the little table on top of the desk. It’s unlikely to feature in HOME&DESIGN magazine, but considering how expensive stand-up desks are, I think it’s a pretty neat solution. So I wrote God of Vengeance standing up. Yes, for the man-points and the additional calorie burn, but also because I had this idea that being more mobile at the keyboard might result in more vigorous and dynamic prose. It’s a journey story, physically, spiritually and emotionally, as well as brimming with general Viking-type activities – you know, rowing, fighting, carousing, pillaging etc – and it just didn’t seem fitting to me to write it sitting down in my embarrassingly comfortable chair, in my slippers. Or, was it because my kids weren’t sleeping at the time and I feared that if I sat down first thing in the morning I’d fall asleep?

That was four books ago. These days I’m mostly back in the comfortable chair. I co-wrote a book with Wilbur Smith so the man-points are in the bag. I have a writing cabin, which some might call a glorified shed (they would be wrong of course) which is made of cedar and smells delicious. The folding glass doors provide the sort of view that is to the cluttered mind what a cold beer is to a thirst. Fields, trees, sky. Plenty of space for the imagination to wander, but then there are the characters who inhabit that space. The clamorous rooks thronging the distant, skeletal beech trees. The buzzard being mobbed by a pair of crows. The stoat bounding across the grass in front of me on some secret mission. The pheasants and their ambling exodus from the distant thump of shotguns to the south. Squirrels stashing acorns like monks burying treasures at cries of ‘The Vikings are coming!’ The robin on a nearby fence post, watching over me like the soul of a deceased relative. The barn owl who, if I am really lucky, perches on a post in the boundary fence, looking for voles in the long grass.

The gardener saw a muntjac deer the other day. I hope he’ll visit today (the deer, not the gardener). The animals never seem to know I’m here and so I observe, which is as much a novelist’s job as writing. I might not know which day of the week it is sometimes, but I notice the little things; the scarlet wax caps sprouting on an old tree stump. The green moss festooning the tiers of an espaliered apple tree, which reminds me of the partially shed velvet on a stag’s antlers. The far-off spear-rattle of ash trees in the wind. For me, sprinkling these little observations into the tale is like the seasoning of a dish.


I love witnessing the seasons turn from here in my hideaway. I like autumn better than summer. The musky sweet scent of decaying leaves. Damp wood and days that never seem to get going. I find it all so atmospheric and sad and beautiful and inspiring. I’m often cold in here because the oil heater takes a while to kick in, and my hands are made even more clumsy than usual on the keys, but then it’s often cold in my stories too. On winter afternoons I like to have a candle burning on my desk, though I’ve just inherited an old oil lamp and look forward to getting that up and running. In the summer I open the doors right up. Only then my word count suffers, as I spend half my time sparring with wasps drunk on the windfall of fermenting apples and out to cause trouble.

Sometimes I find silence too heavy and so will listen to classical music or movie soundtracks. To complement the Viking writing there’s nothing better than Norwegian folk/ambient group Wardruna. They use traditional instruments such as deer-hide frame drums, goat horns and lur, as well as other sources of sound like trees, rocks, water and flaming torches. The atmosphere they create is spellbinding. As for the writer clichés, coffee is indeed my word fuel and I’m not against a glass of red if I’m working late. Perhaps on the more unusual side, when I feel I need a break I like to throw axes. It’s therapeutic. The sound and feel of those axes embedding in a log round is almost as satisfying as when, after wrestling with a defiant line of prose, you read it aloud and say, ‘Yep, that’s the one.’





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Matthew Harffy – Where I Write

Today, I’m delighted to feature a guest post from Matthew Harffy. Matthew has published, to great acclaim, two novels in his series The Bernicia Chronicles: The Serpent Sword and The Cross and the Curse. The third book: Blood and Blade will be published on 1 December with further volumes in the spring and summer.

I really enjoy his novels, they’re some of the best I’ve read so I was really pleased that he is able to tell us where he writes.

When Martin Lake asked me to write a blog post about where I write I chuckled to myself. You see I don’t write in any one place. When I started writing my first novel, The Serpent Sword, I wrote on my trusty desktop PC at home, but once I got seriously into the novel I quickly realized a laptop was essential. Being mobile meant I could write anywhere, even if I only had a few minutes free. My daughters were young and attended lots of clubs. There was Taekwondo, brass band practices and dance classes, and then of course there were the all-too-frequent birthday parties, often in echoey warehouse soft play centres (and if you have never been to a soft play centre on a rainy day during the school holidays, consider yourself lucky to have escaped that particular screaming-child-infested circle of hell). On each of these occasions I would find myself reading a book or perhaps chatting to other parents who were in the same situation as me, waiting for their children to finish and to ferry them to the next event. It’s not like I didn’t enjoy talking to the other parents, but after a while there was only so much small talk with practical strangers I could manage. I worked out that if I used all of the hours every week when I was waiting for my kids to finish things, I could make progress on the novel that had been bouncing around inside my head for so many years.



So I bought a laptop and set about writing whenever I had thirty minutes or an hour spare. Many writers say they need absolute silence to write. I am not one of those writers. However I do need to be able to blank out distractions. To this end, I plug in my earphones and I listen to classical music, film soundtracks or even nature sounds, such as thunderstorms, rain or waves on a beach, basically anything that allows me to focus fully on the blank page before me. I can’t really get in the zone with music with lyrics, as the words tend to distract me.


Using this technique of focusing quickly and writing in short bursts, I have now written four novels and a novella in many diverse places. I wrote most of The Serpent Sword sitting in the back of my car parked outside village halls while the sounds of slightly out of tune instruments wafted on the breeze, or perched on the benches at the edge of noisy gymnasiums whilst my daughters practised kicks and punches of a Korean martial art.


As my writing became more serious, I took to writing more frequently and therefore in more places. From memory I have written parts of the Bernicia Chronicles on trains, in my car, hotel rooms and airport departure lounges in India and Israel, planes, libraries, on my kitchen table, in my spare bedroom (which is where I do most of my writing when at home), in my living room, in bed, and probably in a few other places I have forgotten.


I think I’m lucky to be able to focus quickly and to get words down on the page with minimal fuss. But I wonder if this necessity to write in small windows of time hasn’t actually helped condition me to write quickly. As I know that I will often have to concentrate my work into short bursts of energy, I try to map out my novels in advance. I break down the plot into chapters and each chapter into scenes. This means the when I sit down to write, even if only have forty-five minutes, I know what I need to be writing next. I read what I wrote last time, making small changes and edits as I go, and then I get straight into the next scene or the continuation of the one that I had left unfinished.

So, I suppose the answer to Martin’s question of “where do you write?” is really, “on my laptop”! Where my laptop is, isn’t all that important.

Image copyright attribution:

All photos copyright Matthew Harffy, except “Practicioner breaking board with side kick in Taekwondo promotion test” which is in the Public Domain.


Author info:

Matthew Harffy is the author of the Bernicia Chronicles, a series of novels set in seventh century Britain. The first of the series, The Serpent Sword, was published by Aria/Head of Zeus on 1st June 2016. The sequel, The Cross and The Curse was released on 1st August 2016. Book three, Blood and Blade, is due for publication in December 2016.

The Serpent Sword and The Cross and the Curse are available on AmazonKoboGoogle Play, and all good online bookstores.

Blood and Blade, Killer of Kings and Kin of Cain are all available for pre-order on Amazon and all good online bookstores.


Website: www.matthewharffy.com

Twitter: @MatthewHarffy

Facebook: MatthewHarffyAuthor


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I live on the French Riviera, in a town called Menton, nestled between Monaco to the west and the Italian border to the east. Menton became famous in the nineteenth century when it was advertised as a place where the bronchial and those suffering from consumption could be cured. The latter proved a delusion but it did not stop people coming here.

Many of the people who visited Menton were artists and writers. The painter Ernest Lessieux came in 1884 at the age of 36 because of his poor health; he painted many memorable paintings of the town and died here in 1925, aged 77.

Robert Louis Stevenson visited several times, Graham Sutherland had a house here, as did Lesley Blanch. The Spanish writer Vicente Blasco Ibáñez built a spectacular villa. Aubrey Beardsley died here, William Butler Yeats in the next village along. But the two artists most associated with Menton were the multi-talented Jean Cocteau who worked here in the 60s and Katherine Mansfield.

Katherine Mansfield lived in the Villa Isola Bella in 1920 and produced much of her best work here.


One of the rooms in the villa has been acquired by the Winn Manson Menton Trust and every other year a distinguished New Zealand writer wins a Fellowship to come to Menton and write.

I was lucky enough to make friends with the 2014 Fellow Mandy Hager who let me work in the writing room when I was on a tight deadline to edit A Love Most Dangerous.


It was a peaceful, harmonious place which was fortunate as the process of editing was perhaps the most demanding and pressured work I’ve ever done. There was something both humbling and inspiring at working in a place associated with one of the giants of 20th Century Fiction.

Where else do I write? This all depends on what I’m doing. I tend to think of my writing as occurring in several phases.

First comes the dreaming, windmill-tilting phase. I tend to do this lying down, on the bed when it’s chilly or on the balcony when it’s hot. Staring up at the heavens seems to open my mind to ideas.

Then I pore over the ideas, keeping some, discarding others and gratefully seizing on new ones. I sometimes do this on the dining table but I prefer to get out of the house and visit a café. Fortunately, Menton, like any French town has scores of cafés to choose from. I love the buzz and life of them and it always helps me think.

And then there’s the writing itself. I do this where I’m sitting now, at a small desk in the corner of our living room.I’ve often had a study but I usually found that I preferred to move into the living room which is ridiculously contrary of me.

Here’s a picture of my writing desk.dscn0731

Since moving to France most of my books are on Kindle and I make extensive use of the internet for research. Nowadays we’re  so lucky to have all the resources we have on the internet. I couldn’t easily manage without it.

I only had access to the Katherine Mansfield room once. Now when I edit I either do it in my work-alcove or decamp to the library just across the road. It’s a fantastic place, light and cheerful with a silent reading room where everyone looks at you as you enter, daring you to make a noise.

The advantage of this is that I don’t have access to the internet. I take across my dictionary, thesaurus, specialist maps and research notes. And then I just edit.

Posted in Books, Riviera, writing | 1 Comment

The Lost King

A month ago Trevor Timpson, a journalist at the BBC, approached me to ask what I knew about Edgar Aetheling as he was writing an article to commemorate the 950 year anniverary of the Battle of Hastings.

His piece is very interesting and can be found here: http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-36701131

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The Treasures in Notebooks

I have many notebooks. Too many. Long ago I read that authors should keep noteworks  and I took the message to heart. I have loads and if I see a new one that I like the look of I can’t resist getting it.

Mostly I manage to keep all my current notes and doodlings in one notebook at a time. But I’m fairly relaxed about keeping lots of notebooks for this reason.

I sometimes find things which I’ve long forgotten and prove to be buried treasure.

A little back-story here. The first novel I ever completed was written in 1990-92. It concerns a spy employed by Francis Walsingham, Elizabeth I’s spymaster. It was nearly published but only nearly. So I put it in a drawer and forgot about it. Now, I’ve looked at it again and find it’s better than I feared. So I’m reworking it with a view to publishing it.

Now, back to notebooks. Today I was idly leafing through an old notebook I’m now using for my French classes. I looked at the first entry and found out it was written very nearly ten years ago. This is what I wrote.

23 March 2006. Barnes, South London

I awoke in the Kensington Close Hotel thinking that I should continue with and finish The Lost King of England. Fears that I have left it too late to be a writer. Then, while wandering round Barnes Pond, I saw a lovely old house which Henry Fielding lived in. Then, a few minutes later, while glancing in an Estate Agent’s window,  I saw the oldest house in Barnes advertised. I saw that Robert Beale, Walsingham’s secretary lived there. Then I realised that this was the same house that Fielding lived in and possibly wrote Amelia in in 1750-52. A little later I read in the description that Walsingham himself lived here. Amazing to see his and Beale’s names.

It made me think. I can be a writer. I just need to finish the book. A moment of epiphany. I feel freed up. And it’s a lovely spring morning. The second nice day following this long, drab, dreary winter.

Fears that I have left it too late to be a writer. How wrong could I be?

Well, five years later, on April 18 2011, I published The Lost King: Resistance on Kindle Direct Publishing. I reckon it has sold about 5000 copies since then.

Resistance - Kindle

I’ve also published a further eight novels, six on Kindle Direct Publishing and two of published by Lake Union Publishing.

All in all I reckon I’ve sold 45,000 books or more (plus countless borrows.)

So I need not have had those fears. It’s never too late. And my very first novel will finally be published sometime soon.





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