One of the questions I occasionally get asked is, ‘Where
do you write?’ For ‘writing’ include running the admin for Discovering Diamonds,
these blog posts, Facebook
and Twitter (@HelenHollick) updates – well anything computer-based.
I use a desktop PC and a fairly large screen
because of my wonky eyesight (laptops and tablets are a no-no for me – although
my Kindle is my life-line where reading novels and such is concerned).
When we first
moved to ‘Windfall Farm’ I had a study room that was off the living room,
this became converted to a kitchen when we had the annexe built on for my
daughter and son-in-law –
and my new study was added as an extra room beyond the dining room, where
originally there was a paved patio. The study faces west-north-west and
overlooks our little section of the Taw River and its namesake valley.
And I do admit to spending more time staring out of the window than I should!
I had to cut back on my collection of
books when moving into my new study, although because of my eyes I couldn’t
read them anyway, so the non-fiction and hardback novels that I was never going
to use again went to the local library, paperback fiction went to the charity
shop. I did keep all the sailing reference books, anything Arthurian 1066 related
and side-saddle riding books. And my treasured fiction.
These include my signed first edition of a Dick Francis thriller (and the entire collection of all his books) and signed copies of Elizabeth Chadwick and Sharon Penman. The complete Bolitho
series by Alexander Kent and most
of Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey series.
My treasure of treasures are the extra-special
pony stories kept from my younger years: Wish For A Pony part of my (almost
complete) set of Romney Marsh series and the complete set of Punchbowl Farm
by Monica Edwards. The
‘Jill’ books by Ruby
Fergusson, Black Beauty, of course, a few of the Pullein Thompson’s
adventures and two by show jumper Pat
Smythe. (Only us ‘oldies’ will remember her!) The last is Moorland Mousie –
about an Exmoor Pony. I must have had that book when I was about ten (I’ll be 67
in 2020) I think this is where I got my love for Exmoors from (we now have
three on the farm) and we support the Moorland Mousie Trust as much
as we can – a rescue centre for the ponies that have to be taken off the Moor.
Too many left out there will damage the semi-wild herds.)
Other treasures are various ornaments that mean a
lot to me – my Jack Sparrow ‘doll’ (although I have customised it to become
Jesamiah).A china model of the Saxon church that would have been at Waltham
Abbey (that is, Earl Harold – later King Harold II’s Abbey). A ship or two, a
few dragons, a couple of cannons, a ship’s helm … all models of course!
Behind my desk is my doll’s house. It was my
daughter’s but she was always more interested in horses. Alas, the house became
a little ‘derelict’ for it was stored in the barn for a couple of years. The
damp didn’t do it much good and the mice moving in (somewhat similar to a
Beatrix Potter tale) didn’t exactly help. Very reluctantly I decided to
be brave and dispose of it to the bonfire a couple of springs sago when we had
a clear-out. I had a few tears because of sentimentality, the main reason being
my Dad had re-made the front when I first acquired the house and had made an oak
front door and porch.
By ‘acquired’, I mean ‘found’. My husband, then (about
30 years ago) worked as a dustman (refuse collector) in the London Borough of Waltham
Forest. The doll’s house had been thrown out to go on the dust cart. Ron recued
it. (He also rescued a rocking horse, which I mended and ‘did up’ as a
Christmas present for my, then, eight-year-old daughter. We still have Mushroom,
as he was named.
I was so
reluctant to lose that house… but… no point in keeping it in such a state. Fast
forward to my birthday. What I hadn’t known was that my daughter hadn’t removed
it to the bonfire, but had patiently (and secretly) renovated and redecorated
it. It still needs some finishing touches – new curtains, several new bits of
furniture, but I’ll get around to doing that one of these days. The doll’s
house had always been my substitute dream country house, so I guess it’s
fitting to be here in my real dream house!
The windowsill has several geraniums overwintering
here in the warmth, and the Christmas Rose, I’ve just noticed, is starting to
bloom. Sybil, the white-and-black cat (as opposed to Mab, the black-and-white
cat) sleeps on the chair next to my desk, and in typical cat fashion drives me
mad by going out the cat flap in the adjoining kitchen but insists on coming IN
through the door to the veranda. Obviously, she is convinced that the cat flap
only works one way…
The original study
My other 'companion' of sorts in my study is ‘Alexa’. I
regard her as my P.A. Most useful are reminders to cook/check the dinner
(usually regarding the potatoes) but she is also wonderful at spelling out
words I’m not sure of or as a thesaurus. Especially helpful as I do struggle,
now, with using a dictionary. I also enjoy ‘question of the day’ (I’m up to a
score of 753 points) and that little personal touch of a morning and evening: ‘Alexa,
Good Morning, what’s in the calendar today?’ and ‘Alexa, goodnight.’
It’s nice to get a pleasant, ’goodnight, sleep tight’ response.
Just a bit of a pity that she’s not clever enough
to write the next blog post for me…
Elizabeth St John's latest novel is released today...
Let's find out about it!
Elizabeth St John
Written in their Stars...
While researching the concept for Written in their Stars, I quickly discovered that three women within my family had a significant influence on the outcome of the British Civil Wars and the Restoration of King Charles II. And when I dug deeper, and mapped their activities and the intersection of major historical events, I realized that these women — in effect part of the “Shadow Court” — were able to influence the powerful men of the times in their policies and behaviors. Central to their lives was the conflict of building a commonwealth or restoring the monarchy, and each woman was prepared to sacrifice everything for her beliefs.
Lucy Hutchinson
The three women — Lucy Hutchinson, wife of Regicide Colonel John Hutchinson; Frances Apsley, wife of Lucy’s brother Sir Allen Apsley; and Anne “Nan” Wilmot, Countess of Rochester, Lucy and Allen’s cousin, were best friends and fierce opponents. Lucy supported the execution of the king and the establishment of the commonwealth, while Frances and Nan were fervent Royalists and worked to bring King Charles II home from exile in Paris.
'Nan' Wilmot
My novel covers the time from the execution of Charles I through the exile of Charles II in Paris, where Frances and Sir Allen joined him, to the uprising led by Nan’s husband, Henry Wilmot, Earl of Rochester; and on to the inevitable restoration of King Charles and his determination to exact retribution from his father’s murderers. Needless to say this threw the women into immense conflict, and the eventual outcome proved that love and family can overpower even the strongest of political beliefs.
Frances Apsley
Unearthing that Nan, Frances and Allen worked as 17th century spies certainly revealed a number of surprises that were secrets in my characters’ world, and great discoveries within my family tree. Code names for Allen Apsley, Ned Villiers, Edward Hyde and the king himself; confirmation of spying activities for the Sealed Knot; and a surprise appearance by Barbara Villiers, the king’s mistress, in pleading for regicide John Hutchinson’s life, were all great finds. And along with whispers of their spying activities came other hints of hidden lives. Perhaps the most intriguing was the rumour of an illicit affair between Allen Apsley and his cousin Nan Wilmot. That finding created a wonderful opportunity for a subplot, and I enjoyed creating the fiction around the fact.
Access to their letters and diaries, Sir Edward Hyde’s records at the Bodleian Library, and other primary research from the Friends of Lydiard Park made for great discoveries, and inspired my writing. It is one thing to study their activities within published biographies; and quite another to touch their documents and read their own words, their fears and excitement, and contemporary accounts. Most poignant was reading of their struggles and knowing what they didn’t — their destinies.
London, 1649. Horrified eyewitnesses to King Charles’s bloody execution, Royalists Nan Wilmot and Frances Apsley plot to return the king’s exiled son to England’s throne, while their radical cousin Luce, the wife of king-killer John Hutchinson, rejoices in the new republic’s triumph. Nan exploits her high-ranking position as Countess of Rochester to manipulate England’s great divide, flouting Cromwell and establishing a Royalist spy network; while Frances and her husband Allen join the destitute prince in Paris’s Louvre Palace to support his restoration. As the women work from the shadows to topple Cromwell’s regime, their husbands fight openly for the throne on England’s bloody battlefields.
But will the return of the king be a victory, or destroy them all? Separated by loyalty and bound by love, Luce, Nan and Frances hold the fate of England—and their family—in their hands
The third book in The Lydiard Chronicles series, Written in their Stars, is a true story based on surviving memoirs, letters and court documents from Elizabeth St.John’s family history.
Elizabeth St.John spends her time between California, England, and the past. A best-selling author, historian and genealogist, she has tracked down family papers and residences from Lydiard Park and Nottingham Castle to Richmond Palace and the Tower of London to inspire her novels. Although the family sold a few country homes along the way (it's hard to keep a good castle going these days), Elizabeth's family still occupy them - in the form of portraits, memoirs, and gardens that carry their imprint. And the occasional ghost. But that's a different story...
It’s
been a while since I updated my (very occasional) personal online diary –
Leaning On The Gate. I think this is because the initial excitement and awe of
living in one of England’s most beautiful counties, Devon, and the sheer joy of
being in the heart of farming countryside has now mellowed into the familiarity
of ‘everyday life’ so I don’t feel so compelled to keep a record of ‘what goes
on’, outside of some of the Big Events (like the arrival of our two new
donkeys!)
That
is not to say, however, that I take this wonderful rural life for granted. Far
from it!
I still, every so often, get a feeling of 'we'll have to go home tomorrow' - you know that feeling you get when you are enjoying a wonderful vacation but are aware that it will need to end soon? I've come to the conclusion that I have this feeling because we're only temporary custodians of 'Windfall Farm' (not its real name). The old part of the house was built circa 1769 so it has seen several generations and many different people living here. Some of them are still here! (See my journal entry for November about our ghosts!). So this house isn't 'ours', my family and I are merely the present residents. Although I have warned that I fully intend to stick around as a Venerable Spirit myself when the time comes. (A good while yet, I hope!)
The window on the right is my bedroom window
the stone-built part of the house was built circa 1769
Every
morning when I get up I stare out of both my bedroom windows in turn – front and
back duel aspect. The front window views over the front garden, which needs a
bit of autumn debris tidying up, the stable yard (hidden by the dogwoods an
holly tree) and Donkey Field, which is our neighbour’s field but is being kept
mown by Barney and 'DumpyDonk'.
Barney
DumpyDonk (real name Pedro)
The
back window overlooks the orchard and our little aspect of the Taw Valley.
For
the past too many weeks this view has been obliterated by louring grey cloud (the
Devon word is ‘Dimpsey’) and pouring rain. I know the rain’s bad when I can’t
see through it to the bottom of the orchard and the rounded hills and woodlands
beyond have vanished. What’s the saying? ‘If
you can’t see the hill it’s raining. If you can see the hill it’s about to
rain.”
'Our' bit of the Taw Valley
and the farm opposite us
November
sees the Valley in all its autumn finery. Today the sky is blue and there’s a
watery sunshine. The trees and hedgerows are a glory of colour: reds, golds,
browns – I never realised until moving here just how many shades of green there
are.
We
have many resident birds which visit the bird feeders ‘out the back’ house
sparrows, tree sparrows, chaffinches, nuthatches, blue tits, great tits,
long-tailed tits, robins, woodpeckers, yellowhammers, dunnocks, jays, magpies,
willow tits, wrens, blackbirds, thrushes, goldfinch, greenfinch, siskin, bullfinches…
The
sparrows also congregate out the front. The honeysuckle that grows next to and
over the top of the front door hosts an entire tenement colony of sparrows - we call it Sparrowville. Some evenings the squabbling between the families is like a TV episode of
Eastenders!
An
injured wood pigeon also visits. He’s hit overhead wires at some point because
his chest feathers are damaged. There’s no way that we can catch him to inspect
any further damage, but he comes down for a good feed so nature has to take her
course.
Growing up Franc...
Franc at a week old with Mum, Saffie
Franc
(Taw River Dracarys) will be a two-year-old next April, but already he is
enormous – not far off sixteen-hands. It’s hard to believe that my son-in-law,
Adam, actually picked him up on the day he was born! Franc’s mum, Saffie is now
twenty (going on two as far as she is concerned!) is again healthily in foal,
due in May. We’re hoping for a filly, a little Francesca!
We
still have two geese, Booboo and Colin, and a few ducks, but daughter Kathy has
switched from breeding Call Ducks to Pekin Hens (similar to Bantams but
prettier with their feathered feet and puffed up bustles!) They are wonderful
mums (and ‘Arri is a wonderful dad – he poddles around walking like Charlie
Chaplin!) The little chicks are so sweet! The rain hasn’t been kind to them,
though, as we’ve lost a few babies. With broods of nine to thirteen chicks the
hens can’t get all their children under their wings and sometimes the rain
comes too quickly and heavily for them to hurry back to the warm dryness of the
hen house.
'Arri and one of his Ladies
Colin
Rats
are a problem of farms (and towns actually!) The blighters have killed a couple
of the chicks and the mother hens. No matter how secure you make the henhouse
these horrible creatures get in. Our orchard looks like Colditz at the moment.
I drew the line at discovering a rat making its home behind the fridge in the
scullery though! It got dispatched PDQ I can tell you! Yuk!
As
for my writing… well, you see the trouble is there’s always something to do
outside, or the colours and light across the valley changes, or the farmer is
rounding up the sheep and I just have to sit at my desk and watch…
I’ll
get the next book finished soon… or as they say here in the West Country “Dreckly”
which is a word which means… well... ‘whenever’…
"As officers fell, they were replaced by
sergeants. Within an hour the sergeants were dead, and junior corporals found
themselves in command."
Douglas Reeman, “H.M.S. SARACEN”
My guest today, Armistice Day, is Kimberley Jordan Reeman. Together, we would like to remember the fallen through her husband, author and naval officer, Douglas Reeman who is sadly no longer with us. Over to Kim:
Douglas told me this story.
In December of 1915, in rain and blizzards, British, French, Indian,
Australian and New Zealand forces, with Newfoundlanders in the rearguard, began
to abandon hopeless positions along the Gallipoli peninsula and withdraw, prior
to evacuation. The campaign against the Ottoman armies under Turkish and German
command had been a military and humanitarian disaster, and tens of thousands of
men, Allies and Ottoman, had died of wounds, disease and exposure. Just after
Christmas, 1915, a small, exhausted group of Royal Engineers fell back under
cover of darkness, having rigged time fuses and self-firing rifles in their
trenches to deceive the Turks as they retreated. They were led to safety by a
young non-commissioned officer who, eventually, was questioned by a
lieutenant-colonel.
“Where’s the rest of this battalion?”
The young man said, “This is
the battalion, sir.”
“Where the hell’s your commanding officer?”
“I’m the only officer still alive, sir.”
The young man was Charles Percival Reeman, who would give three sons to
the next war. His eldest never returned. His second son committed suicide in a
post-war world where he could find no peace. With his youngest son, Douglas, he
shared this story, and his memories of Gallipoli and the Western Front.
Douglas wrote H.M.S. Saracen
for his father, read it to him as each chapter was finished, and Percy gave it
his tacit approval. Many years later Douglas would draw on those memories again
when planning a new Royal Marines novel. I recalled something else his father
had told him, and said, “You have to call this book The Horizon.”
He knew what I meant. ‘The horizon’ was the lip of the trench, too often
the last thing a man saw before he went over the top into the hail of
machine-gun fire.
It was very nearly the last book Douglas wrote.
I should have recognized the signs. He brought his father’s memories to
the work, and his own, and the almost unbearable horror of the facts as he researched
began to affect him profoundly. He had always had nightmares: they became
worse. I woke one night and he was standing at the window, eyes open, staring
at the darkness. He was asleep. He worked intensively through the summer, and
there was another source of stress as well, illegal tree-felling close to our
property by rogue developers without planning permission. He began to have
headaches.
I should have known.
But I didn’t know, and maybe to escape the intensity of what life had
become I thought about visiting my family in Toronto over the Labour Day
weekend. Everything seemed fine: Douglas was in favour, although I would be
going alone because he was too busy with work.
The voice in my head said, as clearly as if speaking aloud: Don’t leave Douglas.
I didn’t go to Toronto.
Monday, September 5th, 1994.
One of those golden days, rich
sunlight and blue sky. About 11 a.m. he answered the door to some one selling
tea towels: he came back quietly and sat on the sofa, and said, “Terrible
headache.”
Then he asked for a glass of milk. He choked on it. I said, “Douglas,
give me your hands. Both hands. Squeeze my hands as hard as you can.” He had no
grip in the left hand. I ran into his study: I should have dialled 999, but
instinctively I reached out to the one man who could save him, and he answered
the phone himself.
“Douglas is having a stroke,” I said.
“I’ll come at once,” he said, and the line went dead.
He was our family physician, Dr. Maurice FitzGerald, and he and Douglas
had been friends for forty years. A big, Tigger-like Irishman whose
irrepressible zest for life had led his long-suffering wife Geraldine on many
adventures with Maurice, including a helicopter flight to an oil rig after a
casual invitation from an oil baron at some social function; and a party at
which most of the guests were medical professionals, and Douglas was jokingly
introduced as Dr. O’Reeman.
I don’t know how he got here from Esher so quickly: he must have used
that green light his colleagues regarded with such affectionate contempt. And
there was no jocularity, only a gentle, “Ah, you nearly broke my machine,
Douglas,” after he had taken the blood pressure that confirmed what he
suspected. To me he said quietly, “It’s a cerebral haemorrhage. We have to get
him into the car.”
We got him into the car. Paralysis had already set in. The green light
went onto the roof, and Maurice drove as he did everything else, decisively and
well. I sat in the back, supporting Douglas.
“Keep him talking,” Maurice said. “Keep him awake.”
We got to the hospital. Maurice sprinted in. Came back with help. His
friend the cardiac surgeon was on duty. We stood at a respectful distance as
the team worked, Maurice watchful, intent, protective.
“They’re doing everything right,” he said, and then, “The next
twenty-four hours are critical.”
Eventually, having done everything he could, he went home: he had
patients waiting. Eventually, when Douglas was stable, I left him. It was the
first time I had ever prayed in a hospital chapel: it would not be the last. I
went home. I don’t think I slept. At 8 the next morning the phone rang. I
snatched it up.
“It’s me,” the beloved voice said. “I’m out of bed. I’ve had a shave.” I
really did go to my knees then. He continued, “Did you know this place was run
by nuns?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, the head nun, the... Mother Superior...? She was just in here. She
knows Maurice.” Of course she knew Maurice; everybody knew Maurice, and Maurice
knew every one. “She said she thought I’d be home in a few days.”
Not a few days: but he recovered completely, although he remained on
blood pressure medication for the rest of his life, and was frail and exhausted
and depressed for many weeks as brain and body reacted to the trauma they had
suffered. He always believed I had saved his life, but it was Maurice who was
the real hero.
And Maurice, a few years later, shocked us all by doing what no one expects
of a doctor: he revealed his own mortality by dying in the operating theatre
during routine surgery. His colleagues, patients and friends were appalled, his
family shattered. Geraldine, a quiet woman somehow diminished in stature in the
absence of her towering husband, said in the chilly sitting-cum-waiting room
where the Irish harp stood in the corner, “It’s a very sad house without him.”
I know that sadness. The absence of the voice, the drifting sweetness of
pipe tobacco, the tapping of the typewriter keys in the study. But the books
live on: a great spectrum of experience, the lives of, as he described them,
‘ordinary people called on to do extraordinary things’. And among them, perhaps
appropriately imbued with the dark memories of its gestation, is The Horizon, a powerful evocation of
love and war and courage.
The divine fire that animates us as writers, that drives us to create,
flows from the source, from memory, from history, from bitter experience and
from love: the brain refines, the words take shape, the wordsmith tells the
story.
But for the writer the cost is high: the outpouring of energy, the
investment of time and intellect and passion, the commitment of nothing less
than your life to the stories that demand to be told.
Douglas
Reeman was born in Thames Ditton, Surrey, England in 1924. With the outbreak of
war, and despite belonging to an army family, he joined the Royal Navy without
hesitation at the age of sixteen. He saw service in the North Sea and Arctic,
and in the Atlantic and Mediterranean campaigns, beginning as a midshipman in
destroyers and transferring later to motor torpedo boats.
Following the war, he held a variety of jobs,
including delivering yachts, selling marine engines and walking the beat in
London’s East End as a uniformed constable and in the plain-clothes Criminal
Investigation Department. He returned to active service in the Korean War, and
remained a naval reservist while working as a children’s welfare officer for
the London County Council.
In
1958, having published two short stories, Douglas wrote the fictionalised
version of ‘his war’, more for personal satisfaction than out of any hope of
publication. A Prayer for the Ship was
published in 1958, and marked the beginning of a remarkable career.
Ten years later, having established himself as
one of the foremost modern sea story writers of his time, Douglas embarked on a
new and challenging phase: a series of novels featuring one man and spanning
the golden age of fighting sail. In June of 1968 To Glory We Steer was published under the pen name Alexander Kent,
a childhood friend and fellow naval officer who was killed early in the war,
and its solitary, sensitive, compassionate hero, Richard Bolitho, was
introduced to an ever-growing readership.
Today, the exploits of Richard and Adam
Bolitho feature in twenty-eight Alexander Kent novels, and the lives and deaths
of other men, equally heroic, in thirty-five Reeman novels.
Kimberley Jordan Reeman was born in Toronto, graduating from the University of Toronto with a Bachelor of Arts (hons.) in English literature in 1976. She worked in Canadian radio and publishing before marrying the author Douglas Reeman in 1985, and until his death in 2017 was his editor, muse and literary partner, while pursuing her own career as a novelist. She has always been a spinner of tales, telling stories before she could write, reading voraciously from childhood, and citing Shakespeare, Hardy, Winston Graham and the novels of Douglas Reeman and Alexander Kent as her most profound influences. From Graham, who became a friend, she learned to write conversation, to eavesdrop as the characters spoke; from the seafaring novels of Reeman and Kent, which she read years before meeting the author, she came to understand the experience of men at war. It is not necessary to look further than the history of Canada, and Toronto itself, for the genesis of Coronach: a vast country explored, settled, and governed by Scots, and a city, incorporated in 1834, whose first mayor was the gadfly journalist and political agitator William Lyon Mackenzie, a rebel in his own right, and the grandson of Highlanders who had fought in the `45. The Vietnam War, also, burned into the Canadian consciousness the issues of collateral damage and the morality of war; and from this emerged one character, a soldier with a conscience. In unravelling the complexity of his story,Coronachwas born.
STARTING TODAY! I'm delighted to announce a fabulous on-line virtual tour by author Kimberley Jordan Reeman, widow of the late Douglas Reeman / Alexander Kent.
You can look forward to interesting interviews and thoughtful articles
- so follow the tour! (Links will be updated daily as posts go live)
ANNOUNCEMENT A New Literary Website Developed by Carol M. Cram
by Carol Cram
I write historical novels about women in the arts—medieval painting in The Towers of Tuscany, classical music in A Woman of Note and late Georgian theatre in The Muse of Fire. My love for the arts and of fiction inspired by the arts led me to develop a database of similarly-themed novels.
I’ve designed Art In Fiction to be a literary oasis that lists novels inspired by the arts—a comfortable, laid-back, friendly place where readers can browse hundreds of curated titles. Almost every genre is included—historical, thriller, mystery, literary, and even a smattering of sci-fi and romance—across a wide range of subjects, from architecture to dance to ... knitting! Yes, knit-lit is, I've discovered, a very robust niche.
Here are the ten arts categories of novels listed on Art in Fiction: Architecture, Dance, Decorative Arts, Film, Literature, Music, Photography, Textile Arts, Theatre, Visual Arts. I’ve even included an “Other” category for novels that have an arts focus but don’t fit into any of the categories.
With over 1,000 novels to choose from, and more titles being added daily, Art In Fiction is a one-stop shop for arts-inspired novels. And best of all, membership in the Art In Fiction community is free for readers and authors.
In addition to book listings, Art In Fiction offers blog posts on topics related to the arts and fiction and to cultural travel, guest posts from authors listed on the site, book reviews written by the Art In Fiction team and guest reviewers, and periodic mailouts. Authors with novels listed on Art In Fiction can join the site and have their novels included in a mailout. There’s even a podcast in the works.
Some of the blogs posted on Art In Fiction include:
•A Music-Lover’s Guide to Vienna
•Gift Guide: Art Mysteries for the Art Lover On Your List
•Photo Finish: Snap Happy Novels Inspired by Photography
•To Dance, To Dream: Novels about Ballet
•Vivid & Vibrant Vivaldi Novels
•Yarns About Yarn
•Novels Inspired by Jane Austen
•Riveting Tales of Hollywood's Silver Screen
•Guest Post: The Story Behind Berthe Morisot's "At The Ball"
That’s just a taste. New posts are added almost daily with many more cultural tourism posts (A Jane Austen Guide to England, Best Places to Enjoy Modern Art in France, Top Ten Not-to-Miss Masterpieces in Tuscany, etc.) to come.
I invite readers and authors to visit www.artinfiction.com to discover hundreds of wonderful novels. I’m also interested in receiving blog posts and guest reviews related to novels listed on the website (reposts are fine).
Art In Fiction is a celebration of the many ways in which authors are inspired by the arts. I’ve been amazed and fascinated by the range of novels I’ve discovered as a result of building the Art in Fiction database.
I’m so thrilled to share these titles with readers.
Carol M. Cram (www.carolcram.com) is a multi-award-winning author of historical fiction (The Towers of Tuscany, A Woman of Note, The Muse of Fire), president of New Arcadia Publishing, and founder of Art In Fiction.
She lives on Bowen Island near Vancouver on the west coast of British Columbia in Canada with her husband, artist Gregg Simpson (www.greggsimpsonart.com).
