Will I Ever...? A writer's life. 23-27 September.
MONDAY
Honey, I shrunk the world.
Exploring shipping my car to Canada vs. buying one when I get there. It isn’t expensive to ship, but it takes 39 days! It’s astonishing to receive such a glaring reminder of how much air travel has shrunk the world.
The shipping process itself should theoretically be easy. Drive small metal box into larger metal box. Float that on another metal box for a few weeks, then drive smaller metal box back out of larger metal box at the other end. “Simples”, as a meerkat might say…until Customs get involved, that is. I understand there must be some safeguards and regulations, but it’s the AMOUNT of clauses and provisos they employ to dissuade you from doing something that could be much more straightforward if everyone just took a chill-pill and looked at the bigger picture. I’m not singling out Canada; it seems we’re all at it. Less bureaucracy; more dynamism of travel and trade, surely?
TUESDAY
The oldest, coldest turkey.
Ok, it’s official, I’m DEFINITELY a caffeine addict. Have been suffering severe withdrawal symptoms from my self-imposed cold-turkey. Crippling headaches, inability to concentrate, blurred vision, aching neck and shoulderblades. And to think I pride myself on being so clean-living! Went somewhere today with ‘real’ tea-bags…you know, the good stuff, not this decaff rubbish. Got overexcited and had six massive cups of tea one after another. After ten days off my drug-of-choice, I was awake ALL night, wide-eyed and watching the moonlight travelling gradually across the ceiling. I’ve GOT to give this stuff up. It’s clearly not doing me any good.
WEDNESDAY
Stick to what you’re good at.
Spent a whole morning b*ggering about with Kindle Annotations, and then tried to get my Goodreads account to recognise my Kindle account for cross-platform marketing purposes.
As usual with Goodreads, they give you some pointers – just enough to get you embroiled in the middle of a mess of menus – and then the instructions dry up and you’re left with no idea where you are or how to fix it. It’s the equivalent of leading someone into a maze, helpfully giving them a map, then blindfolding and spinning them around ten times.
I’m sorry to say that every time I go on Goodreads, I’m left seething with annoyance within minutes, unable to achieve anything close to what I went on there for. Ok, I’m not Bill Gates by any means, but I’m not a total dullard either. In the end, I thought ‘why am I expending so much effort on this for so little return?’ Impulsively deleted my Goodreads account then and there, and felt instantly better – one less thing to worry about. If I don’t get how to use it, I’m never going to get value from it, so what’s the point? There are a million unexplored marketing avenues out there that could suit me better. Might give BookBub a go next?
Read Annie Holder’s books on Kindle at: https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B0759DBK7T
THURSDAY
Miss Taken Identity.
Just a little excerpt from Miss Taken Identity. (Might contain swearing or sexual references not suitable for under 18s.) Here, Phillip Fishmandatu first encounters the gangster Jimmy Chadwick:
Nathan tiptoed his fancy BMW across the uneven ground and parked it behind a tumbledown factory building, long since abandoned to ruin.
A Range Rover with darkly tinted windows was parked a few metres away. Nathan glanced at Fishmandatu and nodded towards the other vehicle.
Apprehensively, Phillip asked, “Aren’t you coming?”
“No,” Nathan lifted a rolled tabloid from the door pocket, opening it across the steering wheel, “None of my business, is it? Off you go, Fishy. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“What do I call him?”
Nathan smirked, but didn’t look at him, “Best not to call him anything at all. Oh, and speak when you’re spoken to – don’t volunteer stuff that isn’t asked for. Chop, chop, Fishy!”
Fishmandatu got out of Nate’s car and wobbled on jelly legs the few yards to the Range Rover.
As he got closer, he could make out a darkly-clad figure in the driver’s seat, who leant over to open the passenger door as he approached. Reaching out a hand he was ashamed to see shook noticeably, Fishmandatu swung open the door and stood before it.
A skeletally thin figure dressed in black scrutinised him with mournful, dark brown eyes. His short, black hair was streaked with grey at the temples, and swept back into the sort of fashionable quiff currently favoured by Reece’s white friends. His angular face was barely lined, despite the man being in his early fifties at the very least. Prominent cheekbones sliced his thin face to a pointed chin. His long, straight nose directed the gaze towards full, pink lips that would not have looked out of place pouting on a Paris catwalk. The hands resting on the steering wheel were slim, the fingers long, the nails manicured. His clothes were well-cut, expensive, the black inky deep against the car’s cream leather interior.
Fishmandatu stared openly, struck by the refinement of Chadwick’s appearance.
Chadwick spread his left arm with a dancer’s grace, opening the palm to indicate the passenger seat. In a deep, honeyed voice, the murderer purred, “Take a seat please, ex-Detective Sergeant. You’re letting the heat out.”
Fishmandatu blinked, then clambered in without further delay. Jimmy Chadwick nodded in satisfaction. The closing of the passenger door sealed them in a hushed, plush world of leather and walnut. Chadwick only had to activate the central locking, extend that long, elegant arm once more … and cut his throat.
www.annieholder.com/miss-taken-identity/
FRIDAY
Miss Direction.
Just a little excerpt from Miss Direction. (Might contain swearing or sexual references not suitable for under 18s.) Here, Phillip Fishmandatu tracks down the elusive Tammi Rivers:
Releasing his grasp on her throat and dragging her down the corridor with a firm, directing hand around the back of her neck, he kept the pace brisk and her thin wrists trapped between his long fingers. Her soft curls bounced with the rapid movement, tickling the inside of his forearm. He couldn’t believe how aroused he felt by this; how erotic was the sensation of power! It had been crazy to believe he could deal with this dispassionately, so identically did she resemble his lost love. There was no way he could stare into a face so strikingly similar, touch a body that so closely matched one he had known so intimately, for so long, and be able to control either his undiminished yearning for the past or his unwavering hunger for retribution. Assailed afresh by the absolute injustice of it all, he glared at the defenceless woman in his merciless grasp, and yanked her roughly into the centre of the large room. Manacled in his vicelike grip, she nevertheless wriggled ceaselessly, seeking to twist her arms free, writhing and wincing as the skin of her wrists pinched and burned. Irritated by her refusal to yield, Fishmandatu dangled and shook her viciously by the back of the head, as a boisterous dog agitates a toy, such immediate and extreme discomfort pausing her struggles and giving him a brief opportunity to survey the room.
The penetrating rays of the blinding Caribbean sun glanced off the glossy white kitchen cupboard doors directly into his eyes, making him squint and seek momentary relief, upturning his face to the respite of the sloping darkwood ceiling, a giant black fan rotating in the deepest shadows, ineffectually stirring the oppressive lunchtime heat. The tiled floor extended seamlessly out onto the rear patio, forming shallow steps leading down to the small infinity-pool where Pickford floated, water droplets glistening on his round, sun-baked belly.
Turning back to his prisoner, Fishmandatu’s fingers pressed hard into her small skull, bicep muscle bulging the sleeve of his t-shirt as he lifted her face close to his. His vision still swam from the effect of the shimmering sunlight, and her teeth seemed very white against her tanned skin as she gasped and bit her lower lip, springing onto tiptoe to ease the discomfort as her hair snagged on his perspiring palm. Mouth millimetres from her cheek, Fishmandatu breathed, “I’m here for answers…and I’ll get them. How did you convince him to go along with it, eh? I mean, I presume he knows, right? I presume he’s guessed that the women he’s living with isn’t who she claims to be? Does he just not care or something? Does the selfish bastard not give a crap that you killed his wife?”
www.annieholder.com/miss-direction/
Annie Holder writes pacey thrillers, twist-filled crime novels, and unconventional romances – set all over the world.
You can find out more about her books at www.annieholder.com, and follow her on Instagram www.instagram.com/alhwriter/