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My visitor today is Sean R Robinson, author of More than Starlight, More than Rain in the Rainbow Bouquet anthology.

Welcome Sean and thank you for answering my questions.

For how long have you been writing?

I think I wrote my first book in elementary school, about four pages long and colored with crayons. Professionally, my first publication was in 2015.

What attracted you to the brief for Rainbow Bouquet?

When I was in graduate school at the University of Southern Maine, I read Farah’s Rhetorics of Fantasy and it really changed the way I thought about the genre — from something that was kind of “fluff” into something that mattered, and could be considered academic. The opportunity to share a story in an anthology she was editing made me really excited, and after looking through my work, I thought I had a piece that would be a good fit. So here we are.

What inspired your story?

My story is about a space marine, Gavin Rourke, who is at the end of his life looking back. These themes have always appealed to me: hyper masculinity juxtaposed against genuine emotion. Gavin has loved and lost, and that’s another place that I like to mine creatively. Beyond that, I want love stories that are about love rather than labels. Gavin is in love with a person who happens to be another man, and that’s the story, and it provides visibility without turning it into a story other than a love story…or a ghost story.

Please tell me about your current work in progress.

I’m working on a novel with a writing partner. After a few faltering stops, I think we’ve started building momentum. It’s high fantasy, and I’m just trying to enjoy it as I go, regardless of how silly it may sound.

Could we see an excerpt?

The coach was a grand thing, all gilt and gold, pulled by a pair of matched horses. Mathilde would have known what their color was called, and what breed they were. I almost asked her, but as we rolled down the drive, she had pulled the curtains open, looking at anything but the rest of us.
“Shut that window,” Housekeeper said. “do you want to be robbed?”
Mathilde blinked her eyes slowly. “Yes?”
I laughed, because there was no other answer. My sweet, violent sister.

Where may we follow you online?

On Twitter @Kesterian or my website http://www.seanryanrobinson.com

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Stories of love in the past, present and future…

book title



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I’m delighted to welcome Garrick Jones – author of O, Canada in Manifold Press’s latest anthology Rainbow Bouquet – to my blog today.

Thank you, Garrick, for so kindly answering my questions.

For how long have you been writing?

I retired from an active performing career in 1999, taking up the position as Lecturer in Music at CQUniversity in tropical northern Queensland. Always having been a keen letter writer (remember those days?) and having done three university degrees while performing (two in research) I found academic writing right up my alley. I retired six years ago and started to explore the LGBT literature, finding very little dealing with Australia that wasn’t angstful. While much of it was excellent (Holding The Man, Head On, etc.) there wasn’t anything about gay men and our history, other than non-fiction. So I decided to see what came from my fingers. I happened to run across some very helpful professional writers, who steered me in the right direction. Having my first professional edit was an eye-opener. I suddenly realised it was something I could do, and I haven’t stopped since. I’ve only, in the past seven months had the courage to submit to editors, with a deal of success. What is it about us writers and self-worth?

What attracted you to the brief for Rainbow Bouquet?

I wanted to try my hand at writing a Romance story. Romance is not really my thing; my books have romance in them, usually as a thread throughout the story, but it’s not the focus.

What inspired your story?

A combination of two real-life stories. Canada, because I went there on an exchange program in 1963 at the age of fifteen, and was mesmerised by the handsome airline pilot sitting at the tour desk in the lobby of the Hilton Hawaiian Hotel. He became a fantasy as I gradually grew into my sexuality. The roses? Ah, my wonderful Craig, who remembered every occasion, whether real or imagined with flowers and gentle whispers in my ear.

Please tell me about your current work in progress.

I’m at an interesting crossroads right now. One work ready to go to the editor, another just come back from betas, the third with a theatre historian to check details, and the fourth a book I half-finished over a year ago, but found it too confronting to continue with. I’m currently looking at it to see if I can go on. However, the next book you might see in print is The Cricketer’s Arms, a book beta-read by the wonderful British author, Charlie Cochrane. It’s an old-fashioned, pulp-fiction style detective novel, set in 1956, involving cricket match fixing (and written before the dreadful controversy this time last year, how prescient of me) gang wars, and sex trafficking. It’s a cracker of an action mystery story, even if I say so myself.

Could we see an excerpt?

I’ve attached the first section, with the knowledge that it may not end up word for work in the final version once the glorious Victoria Milne has had her way with it.

I’d just put a fresh sheet of paper in the typewriter, typed the date at the top of the page, “Tuesday, 17th of January, 1956,” lit a cigarette, and stretched back while I got the first dozen or so words sorted out in my head, when someone thumped at my front door.
“Who is it?” I called out, as I walked down the hallway.
“It’s me.”
“Fuck off!” I said.
“Come on, Clyde. Open the door. It’s business.”
I turned and leaned against the wall of the hallway, out of sight of the ripple-glass panels of the door, and ran my hand through my hair. I didn’t want him here—not now, not ever. He began to pound at the door, and I began to worry about the neighbours.
“Clyde! I’m not going anywhere. Open the fucking door!”
I strode to the door in a fury, pulled it open, grabbed him by the tie and one lapel of his jacket, and then dragged him into my hallway, slamming the door shut behind us with my foot. Something in the kitchen rattled. We stood for what felt like five minutes, but which could only have been the same number of seconds. But, in those five seconds, I’d inspected every square inch of his face, fought the feeling of his body pressed up against mine, and taken a deep lungful of his breath in my face—he still smelled the same. Damn him.
“Hello, Clyde,” he said, cheekily, and then ran his hands up between mine and forced them apart. I let go of his tie and jacket. He took my cigarette from my mouth and took a puff. “Still smoking this shit?”
“What’s it to you, Sam?”
“You used to call me Sammy, Clyde.”
“You used not be to be an arsehole.”
He laughed in my face. We hadn’t moved, the toes of our shoes touching, our knees the same. I cursed myself inside. I had no self-control. I tried to move away from him, but he grabbed my shirtsleeve.
“Let go,” I growled.
“Or what?”

Where may we follow you online?

Website – https://garrickjones.com.au

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Stories of love in the past, present and future…

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I’m delighted to welcome Cheryl Morgan – the author of The Poet’s Daughter in Manifold Press’s latest anthology Rainbow Bouquet – to my blog today.

Thank you Cheryl for so kindly answering my questions.

For how long have you been writing?

Since I was at school, which is many decades ago.

book cover showing frieze of Cretan womenWhat attracted you to the brief for Rainbow Bouquet?

Farah has been a friend for a long time. When I saw that she was getting
into publishing I wanted to support her.

What inspired your story?

Emily Wilson’s translation of the Odyssey.

Please tell me about your current work in progress.

I don’t have any stories on the go right now, mainly because I have been
frantically writing talks for LGBT History Month and don’t have any
space in my head for fiction.
Steampunk diver and soldier with Clifton suspension bridge in background
The next story I will have published will be in Airship Shape & Bristol
Fashion 2, which is due out from Wizard’s Tower Press later this year.

Could we see an excerpt?
Sorry, no, but I can tell you a few things. It features a cavalry
officer who is trying to come to terms with surviving the Charge of the
Light Brigade. There are trains. Brunel gets his heart’s desire. And
Lord Palmerston gets to yell, “No one blackmails the British Empire!”

Where may we follow you online?

My blog is at https://www.cheryl-morgan.com

And I am @CherylMorgan on Twitter

There’s a list of all of my published fiction HERE

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Stories of love in the past, present and future…

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Rainbow Bouquet – an anthology from Manifold Press – will be available from today and in celebration of this over the next few days I will be sharing some information kindly provided by some of the authors.

Stories of love in the past, present and future…

The Man of My Dreams by Harry Robertson
Proof of Evil by Ed Ahern
A Hatred of Wednesdays by Victoria-Melita Zammit
Ubytok — umu pribytok by Erin Horáková
The Poet’s Daughter by Cheryl Morgan
Duet for Piano, Four Hands by Sarah Ash
Stronger Than Death by Kathleen Jowitt
More than Starlight, More than Rain by Sean R. Robinson
O, Canada by Garrick Jones
Firebrand by MJ Logue

 

The Authors:

Harry Roberts is naive romantic who blames Disney and old Hollywood films for his high expectations and current single status.

Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over two hundred stories and poems published so far, and three books. Ed works at Bewildering Stories, where he manages a posse of five review editors.

Victoria-Melita Zammit was taught how to write by her father and she hasn’t stopped since.

Erin Horáková is a southern American writer and academic who lives in London. She’s currently finishing up her thesis on the history of charm as artefact, literary effect and affect.

Cheryl Morgan is an award-winning critic, editor and publisher.

Sarah Ash is a fantasy novelist whose love of music often finds its way into her fiction.

Kathleen Jowitt is a writer and trade union officer from Cambridge, United Kingdom.

Sean R. Robinson is a teacher of language and literature in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, USA.

Garrick Jones was a professional opera singer for thirty years, after which he lectured at the Central Queensland Conservatorium of Music. His first novel, The Seventh of December, is published by Manifold Press in January 2019.

MJ Logue is the author of the Hollie Babbit stories about a disreputable troop of Parliamentarian cavalry, which begins with Red Horse.

Rainbow Bouquet

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comfy chair

In November, at Manifold Press’s Queer Company event, I was delighted to meet new-to-me author Michelle Peart who was attending with her family. Michelle’s debut New Adult novel had just been released and it looks absolutely terrific.

I’m very glad to host her today so I can get to know here a bit better.

Welcome Michelle!

Can you tell me a little about yourself?

When I was at school I was a shy kid who tried to disappear into the walls. But I was highly artistic with a vivid imagination and an avid reader. At that time, writing was something that was a means to an end and to write creatively just didn’t enter my head. Wind on many many years and I watched a TV programme that I didn’t like the ending of, so I re-wrote it and experienced great pleasure in doing so. That led to taking five writing courses over three years, two of the later courses were at an advanced level. I passed all with distinction. During the last course I began to write To the Left of Your North Star which grew from taking a long walk along the banks of a copper river.

Do you have to have a day job as well as being a writer?

In-between writing and family I work as a graphic designer with my most recent work being the new book covers for Manifold Press.

When you aren’t writing, is there any other creative activity you enjoy? Have you ever written about it?

I enjoy Amateur Dramatics, I mainly help to create the sets and paint the scenery. I’ve painted, amongst others, a Norwegian fiord, a Paris skyline, and desolate moorland. But I have done a wee bit of acting and have become a sassy American photographer, a turn-of-the-century housemaid, and just recently a rather convincing WPC. The group also provide you with the opportunity to write plays – unfortunately, I haven’t had the time to take them up on the offer.

What are you reading?

I’m currently reading a friend’s manuscript. It’s a thriller, which, as a fantasy reader and writer, is a genre I don’t normally read, but I’ve enjoyed dipping into a different world.

In that crucial inspiration stage of a new story which comes first? Plot, situation or character?

For me, it was a river! Then the characters came along, and following them, the plot.

Do your characters arrive fully fledged and ready to fly or do they develop as you work with them? Do you have a crisp mental picture of them or are they more a thought and a feeling than an image?

Burn arrived fully fledged, I knew who he was, his flaws, his passion, how he spoke, how he felt, what he looked like. But Edward required a lot more work. Initially, because I knew Burn so well, he was going to be my POV character but then I realised that Edward would experience the most upheaval so he had to be my POV. I wrote a whole backstory for him, I even wrote down what he carried in his pockets, and then I trawled Google images until I found an image of a young man that I felt fitted Edward, I pinned the image onto the wall above my computer. He’s still there now, glowering at me.

Is there any genre you would love to write, ditto one you would avoid like a rattlesnake?

I have a keen interest in history so I would love to write an historical novel. But I’m a scared as it’s a huge undertaking to make sure you have all the details correct. I recently attended the fascinating panels at Manifold’s Queer Company event where various authors discussed writing historical fiction – thought-provoking stuff but scared me even further!

I wouldn’t write horror; I simply can’t get on board with gore and violence.

Put together your ideal team of men/women – drawing from all and any walks of life, fictional or non-fictional – who you would want to come to your rescue if menaced by muggers/alligators/fundamentalists?

It’s got to be DC’s Legends of Tomorrow. With Rip, Firestorm, Atom, White Canary, Steel, Hawkgirl, Heatwave, and Captain Cold behind me, all baddies would turn and run with their tails on fire… or frozen.

Villains are incredibly important in fiction since they challenge the main protagonists and give them something to contend with beyond the tension of a developing relationship. The cruel sea. The serial killer. The society itself. Your hero’s inner demons. What sort of villains do you prize?

A villain who you can’t see – the best friend, the inner demon, the hidden in plain sight, the one you don’t expect, the shadowy ones.

What are you working on at the moment? Can you discuss it or do you prefer to keep it a secret until it’s finished.

At the moment I’m writing a New Adult Urban Fantasy called Brennar. The title protagonist is a young man with a painful secret that lives in the sewers below a city under siege. I’m also compiling a story for Manifold Press’ WW2 anthology, Call to Arms.

 

Could we please have an excerpt of something?

 

Here’s an excerpt from To The Left of Your North Star

The problem was, simply put, that I didn’t feel what my father felt. In fact, I didn’t give a fuck about the planet with its backwards and frankly sex-obsessed natives and total lack of creature comforts.

My father waved once in farewell. I ignored him, tilted my head back, and rolled my neck. My head hurt and the annoying native boy’s humming added to the symphony of pain.

“Wave goodbye, Ed-ward.” Burn’s voice rang with merriment as he rammed his push pole into the sandy bank and heaved the Copper Queen into the twisting flow of the river. The raft jolted. I tumbled off the barrel, sprawled at Burn’s feet and looked up into his stupid grinning face. He flashed his eyebrows and laughed. I so wanted to punch him, but I couldn’t get off this hellhole of a planet without him.

I stood and my legs felt like pistons on the twisting deck. I looked back towards the Fire Glade. The sun was creeping up behind the Mountain of Bones, throwing long bronze reflections across the river’s surface. For a second, I forgot about the annoying boy and saw the beauty my father had talked about my whole childhood. A tiny stab of regret prompted me to wave goodbye but he’d already turned towards the crannog. He entered the dwelling and never gave the river, or me, a second glance. Maybe the famous explorer Herb Kemp was glad to be free of his problem, the embarrassing son. I was no chip off the old block.

Burn steered towards the calmer waters at the edge of the river. My guide appeared to be around my age, perhaps younger. He had a wild look to him with large eyes, cheekbones sprayed with freckles and hair the colour of the river. Long limbed and scruffily dressed, like badly pegged washing, with a bow strung across his narrow frame and an intricate pendant swinging from his neck. I assumed that all the furs in the tent must be the result of his hunting skills.

Burn winked as I caught his eye.

I curled my fists – fighting was always my go-to reaction. Everyone in the Fire Glade appeared to be bedding everyone else. If the bloody native thought he could try it on with me, then he had another think coming. I don’t do, and never will do, boys.

A look crossed Burn’s face as he showed me his open palms. “Lighten up, Ed.”

“It’s Ed-ward.” I sagged and gestured across the horizon. “What do you do on Abaytor? Why is it called that anyway?”

“Abaytor means second in our language, so that was the word your father chose. We call it Heras.”

Typical. Earthlings conquer and rename, whether it’s a tiny island in the middle of the ocean or a whole bloody planet.

Burn jabbed the pole into a shallow reed bed and shoved in the opposite direction. “I look after the bees. The ones your father and his companions have come to study.”

“A beekeeper?” I gave Burn a pitying look. He clearly didn’t aim high up the career ladder. I, on the other hand, was after the job of my father’s best friend – chief executive officer of the Westcoast Bank.

“Well, I suppose. They are rare gold-tipped bees only found in the Mountain of Bones. Their honey has healing qualities not found anywhere else on Abaytor or – ”

Zoning out, I stared at my wet feet. I missed my friends; they’d agree with me that my situation was pants and I had every right to complain. And my bloody mobile wouldn’t work; this God-forsaken planet hadn’t invented the radio yet, never mind the telephone.

“What do you do, Ed, when you are not accompanying your father on his trips?”

I ignored him.

“Edward?”

Good God, the boy was persistent. “I don’t do anything and I don’t make a habit of accompanying him.”

“What is it like having a famous father? I understand he is well known on your planet.”

Fighting an urge to push Burn overboard, I said, “It’s just peachy,” before muttering, “My father’s not paying you to ask questions, just to take me to the Landing Plains.”

“Your father is not paying me at all.”

“You’re doing this for free? You’re mad.” Never do anything for nothing, is what my father taught me. Oh, and never let your left hand know what your right is doing. I still don’t know what that means.

“Having now made your acquaintance, I think I probably am mad.” Burn smiled and rammed the pole into a nearby bank.

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To the Left of Your North Star 

The self-assured Edward has accompanied his father, famous explorer Herb Kemp, to Abaytor. Herb is on a mission to save Earth’s bee population, but Edward couldn’t care less and just wants the comforts of home. Burn, an off-kilter Abaytorian with a desire for change, is charged with escorting Edward down the Copper River to Herb’s spaceship. As they travel through perilous lands on a makeshift raft, they are in a constant battle with the river, themselves and each other. Edward’s problems with his father are laid bare as they are hunted, starved, almost drowned, and confronted by difficult choices. But, among the striking landscapes and colourful people of Abaytor, Edward slowly learns about trust, self-acceptance and love.

Buy Links: ARe | Amazon UK | Amazon US | Smashwords

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Author Bio:

I am a writer, a designer, and lover of the fantastical. During the past two years, I have completed four writing courses, two at an advanced level, and passed all with Distinction. To the Left of Your North Star will be my debut novel.

 

You may follow me on my Blog: https://thecopperriver.wordpress.com/ or on Twitter as @ShellPeart, or on Pinterest: https://uk.pinterest.com/mkpeart/

 

 

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The Bridge on the River Wye
by Adam Fitzroy

Blurb:

Chef Rupert’s picking up the pieces after a catastrophe; he’s lost his love, his business, his home and even his dog, and he’s trying to make a fresh start. Linking up with Jake almost on a whim he soon finds himself involved in a strange tale of organic farming, migrant workers, greed and even possibly murder – in the midst of which the attraction is still there, but Rupert’s not sure whether the feeling’s mutual or if he’s ready to try for a proper relationship again just yet …

70,000 words/256 pages
£3.75

Go here for an excerpt.

Available from Manifold Press.

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