Inky Interview Exclusive: Bestselling Novelist Linda Green with Kev Milsom

Hello Linda. Firstly, thank you so much for finding time for this interview with Ink Pantry. It’s always a joy for us to learn from established authors. I’d like to start by taking you back in time. What were your first literary inspirations/heroes? How active were you as a writer at school and during your adolescent years?

I was pony-mad at primary school so my favourite books were Jill’s Gymkhana and Black Beauty but I do remember reading The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe and being utterly engrossed by Narnia and the world C.S. Lewis had created. I wrote my first novella aged 9 but I think I was a bit ahead of my time with a pony-based time-travel thriller! I had some wonderful teachers who encouraged my writing. When I left primary school, one of them wrote that she looked forward to reading my first published book and she wrote to congratulate me twenty five years later when it happened!

Recently, I was honoured to read your excellent novel, The Last Thing She Told Me. Can you share some insights into the initial inspiration for this book and some of the research that you undertook to give you further insights into the characters?

The idea actually came from something my 92-year-old grandmother said just before she died. She told us to look somewhere after her death, and when we did so, we found something which suggested she had suffered a secret loss and had tried to mark it. We will never know what her secret was, but it got me thinking about women of her generation and the secrets many of them took to their grave because of the shame they had been made to feel. When I researched the subject, I came across many heartbreaking cases of secrets and losses which had come to light only after elderly female relatives had died. I knew I wanted to write about several generations of women in the same family and I also realised that women of different generations had also been shamed, though often for different things. All of this came together in the plot of The Last Thing She Told Me.

Many of our readers are aspiring writers, poets and novelists. What advice would you give to anyone who seeks a similar career path in writing, or indeed to anyone who simply aims to write because they enjoy the process?

The key thing is to learn your craft and continue to hone it. I’ve just finished my tenth novel and I like to think I’m a much better writer now than I was when I started, and I like to think I’ll be a better writer still after my 20th novel! There’s lots of advice on the writing process and how to get a novel published on my website under the ‘about getting published’ tab. Improving your writing needn’t be expensive, there are lots of good books on how to write available from the library. If you want to get a book deal, be prepared for rejection and persevere – I had 102 rejections from agents before I was taken on. And if being published isn’t important to you, then please just enjoy your writing!

Linda, in terms of your organisation, are there set aspects for your literary work? Do you always write in the same location? Do you use music as a background tool, or silence? When you are developing a new book, do the characters tend to come first, or the general plot line to the story?

Ideas for my stories often come from real life events and issues I feel passionate about. It’s about finding a premise that keeps me awake at night and will hopefully keep readers awake too! I’m very much a plotter and a planner, so do lengthy characterisations and write chapter plans and do all my research before I’m ready to start writing. When I do so, I mainly write at home (in a spare back bedroom which is now my writing room) and generally in silence. But I also write in libraries, cafes and on trains, anywhere where I can find the time.

Whilst on the topic of inspiration, has this always been a strong aspect of your writing, since childhood? I’m sure many people will be interested in how much you perhaps found ways to ‘push’ yourself – to have ultimate faith/confidence in what you were writing and to believe wholeheartedly in your literary journey. How difficult was it for you to maintain this journey, despite possible rejection(s) from publishing companies?

I’ve always had a very active imagination and used to write lengthy and rather crazy stories as a child. I’d wanted to be an author since I was nine, but had a ten year career in regional newspaper journalism before I went freelance to try to write my own novel. It took seven years and 102 rejections before I finally got a book deal. It was hugely difficult to keep going at times but I did so because I wasn’t prepared to give up on my lifetime’s ambition and I did believe I had the ability to achieve it. But you must always be looking to improve your writing too, which can be a difficult balancing act!

In terms of contemporary writers, who are you drawn to and why? Do you tend to stick to strict reading genres, or are you more interested in the writing style of the author?

I read quite widely and in different genres, as long as a book has heart and soul, and well-written characters, I’m there. Margaret Atwood is my favourite author and I loved The Testaments. I’m also a big fan of Rachel Joyce (The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry) and am looking forward to her new novel. I’ve also enjoyed Leonard and Hungry Paul by Ronan Hession and Sweet Sorrow by David Nicholls recently. They all write stories where the characters are intensely real and their novels are so well-written.

Thank you so much for sharing your valuable insights with our readers, Linda. Finally, what does the future hold in terms of new works? Will you stick with novels, or are there perhaps new creative ‘doors’ that you wish to explore?

I love writing novels and would also like to write a children’s novel at some point soon. And I’d love to write a play, so they are both on my to-do list for the future!


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Ink Pantry Publishing’s Krampus Poetry Competition 2019 Highly Commended: Krampus by Lel Meleyal

Krampus stole my grandchildren.
No goat ever threatened my son.
Just the mothers’ ally threat
‘Santa does not visit naughty children’
was enough, at least in December

Vienna is as beautiful as the girl
Who captured my boy’s heart
Who took him home
To celebrate life, love and Christmas
Held on the 24th December.

Which is not really Christmas
Where my boy grew up
But is where his boys now excitedly
Hope for a visit from the Christkind
And Saint Nicholas

My mince pies
Do not meet the approval of
Großmutter Anna
Though I like her Lebkuchen.
Thankfully, no-one likes carp.

The kids in accented giggles
Call me Die Englische Großmutter
When they tease my Yorkshire inability to ski.
I ache for Granny, or Grandma
Closeness cleft by air miles.

Judge Claire Faulkner writes: A different style and approach to the theme of Krampus, but one which captured my heart about the impact of myth in different lifestyles and cultures.

Lel Meleyal, previously a research academic, also writes fiction under the name Antonia Chain.  She writes a literary blog and enjoys performing her flash fiction pieces.

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Ink Pantry Publishing’s Krampus Poetry Competition 2019 Highly Commended: Krampusnacht (a triolet poem) by Tracy Davidson

On Krampusnacht, bad children quake
as anti-Santa stalks the streets,
cloven-hooved, with a chain to shake.
On Krampusnacht, bad children quake
and rue each sin and sad mistake,
receiving swats instead of sweets.
On Krampusnacht, bad children quake
as anti-Santa stalks the streets.

Our judge Claire Faulkner writes: A strong example of writing to a theme within a set form. One of the shorter entries, but a still story full of imagery.

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Writing Magazine, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Artificium, Journey to Crone, The Garden, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights. 

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Ink Pantry Publishing’s Krampus Poetry Competition 2019 winner: Krampusnacht by Amy Cresswell

Our tale takes place on December the Fifth,
On a suitably freezing cold night,
With a creature you’ve heard of, from olden day myth,
Eyes aglow with malevolent light.

The snow is disturbed by his cloven footsteps,
His grey beard, all matted and long,
Swishes as he stalks past the darkened doorsteps,
To the houses of those who’ve done wrong.

A red hooded cloak covers up his horned head,
Fur trimmed, just like old Saint Nick’s,
His first victim, cowering under her bed,
Gets a swipe with his great birchwood stick.

The next, vainly dreaming of presents and sweets,
Hears the deafening clanking of chains,
Downstairs, not Saint Nick, but Krampus he meets,
And the blood freezes inside his veins.

The third, hoping for a bit of good luck,
Squares his shoulders, prepares to attack,
But Krampus’s claw swiftly snatches him up,
And then bundles him into his sack.

Just like this it continues, and when dawn draws near,
He retreats, a full bag on his back,
Hurls the wicked children down to Hell for a year,
Then enjoys an ice cold glass of Schnapps

Judge Claire Faulkner writes: I enjoyed the style and structure of this poem. I feel that it tells us everything we need to know about Krampus using fantastic storytelling and imagery.

Amy Cresswell lives in Yorkshire, England, and holds a Bachelor’s degree in English Studies. She writes short stories and poetry for fun, and is currently writing a novel. In her spare time, she’s usually playing videogames, baking really sweet stuff, or throwing toys for her cat. 

Poetry Drawer: In avian company: Frangipani and honey-eaters: A raven among the sulphur-crests by Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

In avian company

In the eucalyptus grove
I munch on my sandwich
tossing some crumbs
at the two eager bush turkeys
romping around in the grass.

suddenly one of them
takes an explosive shit –
an ochre-white splatter
with a black jelly centre
which its companion
promptly begins to peck at
seeing which, the bird
who took the massive dump
heartily joins the other
in dining on its poop.

I throw up a little bit
in my mouth
my sudden retching
startling the feasters
who scoot off a distance
before coming back
with renewed appetite
to resume nibbling
on the glob of excrement.

I look away
and quickly swallow
the small well of puke
pooled in my mouth –
it somehow seems
like the logical thing to do
in this particular
avian company.

Frangipani and honey-eaters

those stories
that grandmother used to tell –
malevolent spirits roosting
in the branches
of frangipani trees at dusk
something sinister
about the otherworldly perfume
of flowers in bloom
that drew tortured souls
caught between worlds
to the ivory perch
of their shadowy branches.

at the far end of the backyard
the gardener has trimmed
the frangipani tree
to limbs so bare
they look like floating fingers
splayed anemone
in the sea of the night.

from the u-shaped curve
of a comfortable fork
the honeyeaters stare
bodies tucked in their new nest
eyes filled with dread
as they study me
floating back-lit
half-human, half-ghost –
and I wonder
if their grandmothers told them
stories about my kind
even as I imagine them
with beady eyes
smouldering in the dark
and fantasise about demons
that quickly morphed
in the time
my back was turned.

A raven among the sulphur-crests

it’s an autumn morning ritual
stalking the balcony
awash in black
gunmetal hair
swelling in the wind.

the sulphur-crests
await my appearance
an army of twelve
perched on the railings
diamond formation
attention rapt.

in black lingerie
and beguiling lace
I fancy myself
a millennial Grimhilde
hands aloft
spilling cake crumbs and bread.

I toss them in the mist
and the birds circle
squawking, snowing white
tame in the power
of my sorcery
the mysterious human-raven.

on the balcony below
the neighbour gawks in horror
this manic wheeling
of wild cockatoos
my frightening nudity
madness on show.

Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad is a Sydney based artist, poet, and pianist. She holds a Masters in English. Oormila is a member of Sydney’s North Shore Poetry Project and Authora Australis. Her recent works have been published in Eunoia Review, Poets Resist, Rue Scribe, The Ekphrastic Review, and several other literary journals in Australia, the US, and the United Kingdom.

Poetry Drawer: Survival: Rehearsal: Nan’s Funeral by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

Survival

One day, I’ll be alive.
Not sad, afraid to stir my mother’s rage
over breakfast each morning.

One day I’ll smile
touch-papers of joy and ignite love,
this way and that, far into the future.

Rehearsal

It’s far away, the day
when I’ll be free to walk out
and make my way. Leave
my bedroom, quit my home
to make my own mistakes
and party. It’s far away
and secretly, I’m pleased.
More time to be a child,
loved to bits even though
I play my face, paint my nails,
line my eyes with kohl
and pick black Goth clothes
out of my old dressing-up box.

Nan’s Funeral

We crunch on frozen soil’s solid crust.
Skimmed sunshine ignites crystal sparks,
diamonds scatter on the ground.
My son asks, Mum, can I smile today?
I leak stray tears, laugh and squeeze
his hot hand: plump palm and curled fingers.
He’s too young and I’m too old to understand.

I see my Nan’s eyes gaze from his fresh face,
loss erased in currents of connection.

Ceinwen lives near Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies. She has an MA in Creative Writing [Newcastle 2017]. She believes everyone’s voice counts.

Poetry Drawer: The Bartender’s Tale: Approaching 82 by Robert Demaree

The Bartender’s Tale

Part One: New Hampshire

We are having lunch with our poet artist friend,
Looking down toward the big lake,
Luminous glow of peak reds and golds
In an October mist.
The bar is crowded,
Favourite domestic brands on draft.
Why would you go to a bar at noon on Monday?
To watch replay of Sunday’s game,
To see if the Patriots win this time,
Or have a beer with your sandwich,
Which you could do by the window,
At the table next to ours,
And look out at the muted foliage.
Mainly, we conclude, for companionship,
The sense of being part of something,
Even—especially—in a resort town
In the off season.
We are ready to go.
We hug our friend and say
So long until June.
There’s an empty place at the bar now
I may come back in a while.

Part Two: North Carolina

At the supermarket where we shop
The marketing folk have sought to
Redefine the grocery experience,
So they’ve put up a sign out front
That says “Welcome to Our Farm”
And have installed a beer garden
In the beverage section,
Craft brews with exotic ingredients.
So at one pm on a Tuesday
There are people sitting at the bar
Enjoying a cool one.
Who drinks beer at a grocery store?
People who work for the distributor?
There is no TV, no football,
Sometimes no one to talk to.
They may be wishing for a companionship
Yet to emerge, a kindred spirit
To appear from down the produce aisle.

Part Three: Pennsylvania

I think of the bars on every corner
In the sad rust belt town
Where I grew up.
Priestly barkeeps move their towels
Back and forth with Rogerian attending.
Jesse and I walk by at dusk
Carrying our baseball gloves,
Close enough to hear those Pennsylvania voices,
The murmur of disappointment and companionship,
Esslinger, Schmidt’s of Philadelphia,
Old Reading Beer.

Approaching 82

1.
I have created templates
In my computer
Wishing speedy recovery,
Funny cartoon characters
Sending all good wishes,
Thinking of you.
I cannot yet bring myself
To send condolences
Online

2.
These things all happened the same day:
The phone rang at six a.m.
A stranger from Memphis
Sought our help
In contesting someone’s will.
Sarah fell putting out the bird feeders.
A raccoon had gotten into the garbage.
The cable was out for twelve hours.
Then, toward midnight that same day,
The faint dampness of soiling nightclothes
The aroma of being eighty-one,
A point in life when
You run into a friend
Long unseen
And are afraid to ask
How’s your wife.

3.
Retirement home dusk
A bicycle built for two
Rear seat riderless.

Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.

Flash In The Pantry: : Last Call by Alison Ogilvie-Holme

Six feet tall and full figured, Lena is all stature and curves. Punctuated by stiletto heels. She sips her iced tea and sways to the music, watching lithe bodies aglow beneath spinning black lights.

Energy shifts in the club as the bartender announces last call; strangers begin the distilled process of coupling for the night. They suss out their options and then dangle the bait.

Can I buy you a drink?

Are you here on your own?

Do you need a ride home?

Lena turns around to settle her bill and discovers a torn slip of paper tucked between two twenties. A proposition, of sorts.

Thanks for the lovely view. Drinks on me. Meet you by the coat check in five?

She feels almost giddy – once again the bashful schoolgirl passing notes in math class, butterflies floating freeform in her stomach.

It occurs to Lena that she is playing a dangerous game, inviting disaster. What would people think if they could see her now? Clad in low cut halter and tight pleather pants, smoky cat eyes accentuated with red lips. Of course, she knows enough to be discreet, unlike some of her daft colleagues, posting pictures of themselves half naked and properly smashed.

A quick stop in the loo to refresh lipstick and plump cleavage, and she is ready to make her appearance.

Waiting beside the queue is a bookish fellow with light red hair and horn- rimmed glasses, more akin to giving advice at the pharmacy counter or approving loans at the bank; his distinguished appearance entirely out of context in these surroundings. She smiles in approval as he takes her hand and presses it to his lips.

“Hello there, gorgeous. I’ve never seen you here before. Do you live nearby?”

“I’m just passing through, actually. Only here for the night. You can call me,’ Lena pauses to select her handle ‘Veronica. Veronica Desmond.”

“Nice to meet you, Veronica. You remind me of a busty Cleopatra,’ he winks ‘I’m whoever you want me to be.”

Without further preamble, Lena follows him to his car in the parking lot and wordlessly begins to undress him. She attempts to manoeuvre within the confines of the backseat, feeling like an aging contortionist while still assuming the appropriate sounds and expressions of desire. How did she ever do this in high school? He continues to adjust positions, narrowly avoiding death by stiletto on more than one occasion. They make forced love in record time.

Afterwards, they both sit in silence and light up. Another dirty little secret. She hears a tropical ringtone and swipes to retrieve the text on her mobile.

“Well, pumpkin,’ Lena exhales ‘looks like we’d better head home now. The sitter expected us hours ago, and Max has soccer in the morning.”

“Yes, dear,’ agrees her husband, rubbing his aching back ‘and next time, let’s just book the hotel instead.”

Poetry Drawer: The Stone Elephant by Kristal Peace

I didn’t

Tell her about

       The gavel, chestnut and

        condemning in its conviction, about

                The sentence that was read

                while I studied

                                my shoes,

                      About the bars that lined my vision morning, evening, and

                                Night,

                        About the time

                        out of the sun,

                               The hours

                                away from the world, about

                                The room I was given

                                At the castle, about

                                        My only friend

                                        on the range, about

                                                The stain

                                                That limits my ambition. Now,

                                        How do I tell her?

I am in love with her.

Kristal Peace is a lover of words. She loves their puissance; their ability to charm, dazzle, puzzle, stun, comfort, help, heal, inform and transform. In her free time she indulges her love of words and uses those majestic creatures to write stories and poems.


Poetry Drawer: apocalypse now: i am the one: brace for impact: endless worries: the world he brought you into by J.J. Campbell

apocalypse now

sitting here drinking
watching apocalypse
now for maybe the
thousandth time

when i was younger

i was about the
napalm in the
morning

when i got older

i was martin sheen
face painted, coming
out of the water

now that i’m old

i’m fucking brando

isolated genius
spewing madness
into a microphone

waiting for someone
to release me from
the horror

the horror

so, if you ever come
over and hear the end
by the doors playing
a little too loud

do yourself a favor
and duck

i am the one

happiness is as
elusive as a woman
deciding i am the
one

plenty think that
at some point
then, reality
settles in

between the abuse,
the poverty,
the emptiness
and despair

it certainly doesn’t
look as rosy as
before

and no one likes
a dream that gets
muddled with
some real life
shit

brace for impact

say
hello to
the most
beautiful
woman
you know
and brace
for impact

one of
these
days

she might
actually
acknowledge
your existence

endless worries

the lucid skies
of neon dreams

polluted with the
endless worries
of a population
under attack

divided

we have fallen

this
is what happens
when you refuse
to learn from
our history

the world he brought you into

every scar
is a memory

engraved into
your brain for
posterity

every lash

every harsh
word

every single
time your father
threatened to
take you out
of this world
he brought
you into

there aren’t
enough drugs
in the world
that will allow
you to escape
the pain

but, there’s
always a
bullet

http://www.inkpantry.com/poetry-drawer-if-i-was-an-optimist-when-an-old-woman-%ef%bb%bfsingle-in-my-forties-but-as-the-light-fades-no-desire-to-even-think-by-j-j-campbell/

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, plotting his revenge.  He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Record Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Synchronized Chaos, and Chiron Review. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights & Goodreads.