Miriam Hastings was nominated as an Indie Author who deserves appreciation and acknowledgement of her work. I am pleased to present this author a showcase blog post.
Author Bio:
Miriam Hastings is a novelist and short story writer. She has published fiction, poetry, literary reviews and articles, and essays on mental health.
As a child and an adolescent, she suffered from repeated bouts of ill-health, both physical and mental, which meant she had to leave school when she was only fourteen. As a mature student, she achieved a BA from Middlesex Polytechnic, then an MA and PhD from the University of London where she taught for fifteen years. She has also worked in mental health, in a variety of fields. For several years she ran therapeutic creative writing groups for survivors of childhood trauma and mental distress.
She lives with a degenerative spine disease and a heart condition so now she can only write using voice recognition software, or a Dictaphone – this makes life as an author quite a challenge at times! She lives in East London, an area that she loves, she works from home as a writer and tutor and leads workshops in creative writing for personal development.
“The Interview”
1. Describe yourself in three words: Crazy cat lover
2. Why do you write? To stay sane
3. Name up to five people who inspire you: My regular writing ‘buddy’, Wendy Brandmark, who gives me lots of encouragement when I’m losing heart, & the following writers (among others): Isabel Allende, Angela Carter, Toni Morrison.
4. If you could sit down with anyone, living or dead, and have a conversation with them, who would it be?
That’s really difficult, there are so many to choose from, but one would be the courageous, intrepid, one-eyed war correspondent Marie Colvin.
5. Write a 100 word "flash fiction" story about your favorite fairy tale character.
You’ve heard my tale, I'm sure, how I tricked the giant into a mouse and gobbled him up, stole his grand castle for the boy. Did anyone ask what would have happened to Puss if he'd turned back into a giant as he went down? Bits of fur and insides all over the place! But did they care? No, too busy planning the wedding. Once I've been ring bearer, what happens next? Turns out she’s allergic to cats! It’s "Thank you, Puss, I'm sure you understand," and I'm on the road again, boots and all.
Anyone need a good mouser?
Books:
The Minotaur Hunt
The Doll and other stories: Strange Tales
Walking Shadow (as M W Hastings)
The Dowager’s Dream (upcoming)
Synopsis of Walking Shadow:
Living in exile in the Venetian ghetto with his mistress Katharina and his new-born son, Edmund/Rosamund Shakespeare reflects on the events which led to his incarceration in the Tower, charged with treason. As he examines his memories, thinking back over his life as a player with the King's Men, he sets out to evaluate his own past conduct, trying to understand how far he was inculpated in treachery and who betrayed him to the ruthless Lord Salisbury.
In January 1606, London was a dangerous place; the gunpowder plot had just been foiled, spies and informers were everywhere, suspicion was rife in the streets and the terror of Catholic fanatics was as strong in the people as it was in the Government. It wasn't only players who performed a part; it was a time when everything was uncertain, and nothing was what it seemed. Like so many lurking in the streets of the city, Edmund adopted multiple disguises and beneath those disguises he hid many secrets. As the novel unfolds, the reader begins to uncover the truth about Edmund, about his identity, about his involvement with the conspirators and to reach some understanding of his guilt and his innocence. Was the gunpowder plot organised by the Jesuits, as Lord Salisbury claimed, or was Salisbury himself orchestrating the whole affair for his own ends?
This is a historical novel with profoundly modern themes: the fear of terrorism, political manipulation of information, and issues of religious fundamentalism and intolerance.
Excerpt from Walking Shadow:
1. London, January 1606.
They came for me at night, rowing me to the Tower in an unlit boat; they do that journey so often, they had no need of lamps to show the way. Beneath the oars the river looked thick and dark and London Bridge stood high and black against the sky, with the heads of traitors pierced on spikes above the gatehouse. I’d seen those shriveled, flaking turnips often enough in broad daylight yet I was unable to control a shudder at the sight, making my captors laugh.
“Aye, mind you don't end up with your noll on show for us to admire, young Jack!” said one.
“He will for sure,” said his fellow, “what do you wager?”
“We all go the same way in the end,” replied the first, “Think on it, my laddie,” he added to me, “whether in our beds like good Christians or on the gallows, it's all the same - but it’s true, I reckon you’ll be going long before us.”
As we neared the bank the stench made me retch; all the shit from the palace thrown into the water. We did not disembark at the entrance I knew so well – the one we players used when we came to entertain the Court – instead, I was taken to a narrow gate leading directly into the lower regions of the place; I saw the gaping mouth widening to swallow me. They dragged me from the boat and into a labyrinth of tunnels. Down there it was a world away from the State Apartments with their rich tapestries and roaring fires. There it was chillingly cold, colder even than the river, with bare walls and low, ill-lit passageways - the rat-runs that lie beneath the King's grand palace like the holes weevils gnaw in cheese.
They pushed me into a small cell, throwing me across the floor. I lay there, bruised and dazed. It seemed impossible that I was not dreaming, that I was not still outside the Mermaid or back home with Kate, but suddenly the sense of unreality lifted, and my situation hit me like a blow in the stomach. I doubled up, arms round my belly, face pressed into my knees.
It was already night when we left the Mermaid, noisy with ale. It was so cold that even the filthy effluence seemed frozen, making the narrow alley smell less foul for once although a couple of drinkers were out there, pissing against the tavern wall.
We passed on through the darkness which engulfed us as we left the light of the tavern further behind. If we’d been sober, our noise in the silent street would have made us nervous; not that we were really drunk but we were cheerful, far too cheerful. I was walking with Robert, a little behind the others. As we neared the corner of the street, the hairs on my skin began to prickle; a premonition possibly, or maybe it was just the cold night air. Then there came a shout, we heard the clash of steel, the tramp of feet, and a group of men in armour were barring our way.
“Stop there! Halt, if you value your lives!”
“Who are you?” Will shouted back.
“We seek a villain.”
“Who?”
Light flared in our eyes as they held up torches. There were a lot of them. I was cold right through.
“We seek Edmund Shakespeare, is he here?”
Will hesitated, “Why?” he asked, “What has he done?”
“Treason - so hand him over if he’s among you.”
“This is nonsense!” Dick burst out.
“Round them all up!” said the leader.
“I am Edmund Shakespeare,” I said, stepping forward, “it’s me you want.”
“No,” Will intervened, “the boy’s lying to protect Edmund. Edmund’s not with us tonight.”
“Are you a fool? We know all you players are to be found in the Mermaid every night without fail. Do you think your every word isn’t overheard, your every action watched?”
“There’s no point in us all being taken,” I said to Will.
He paused; he could see the sense in this - if he was arrested, he’d be able to do nothing. He’s an influential man, if he stayed free he might - just might - get me released.
“Tell Kate,” I called to him over my shoulder. He nodded. Katharina . . . once his mistress, now mine, “Look after her,” I shouted as they dragged me away.
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