Zoë Sharp in natural habitat |
I blame Jeff and Stan. They ambushed me in the bar at Bouchercon last month. One minute we were recounting
our favourite Flanders
and Swann songs, with much juvenile giggling, and the next I’d been talked
into joining this illustrious little gang. I’m still not entirely sure how we
got from there to here.
I don’t even drink.
But, here I am, nervously smoothing down my hair and straightening
my Sunday-best frock, trying to remember my lines and hoping not to be met
with, at best, a blank-faced stony silence.
And it occurred to me that I really ought to introduce myself
properly to my new bloggers and bloggees. So here goes.
I took a weird path into the writing game. Is there a normal one? I
wasn’t a noted student, opted out of mainstream education at the age of twelve
and did correspondence courses until I was legally old enough to go out and get
a job. The local authority sent me to see a careers advisor when I was fifteen
or so. I told him I was interested in writing. He said, “We’ll put you down for
clerical.”
I’d already written my first novel by then. It still sits,
unpublished, in a folder in the attic. A children’s story, but no fledgling
Harry Potter. My father threatens every now and again to dig it out and see if
it will fly on eBay. I have it well hidden.
A few years later I ended up at my local newspaper, selling display
advertising — the ads in the front half of the paper, rather than the
classifieds. A soulless job if ever there was one. Everybody suspects that half
the money they spend on advertising is wasted, but they don’t know which half
so they resent spending any of it. I lasted six months of impossible targets
and nail-biting deadlines and picked up a temporary heart murmur for my pains.
Towards the end, my manager — knowing I wouldn’t stay past the probationary
period — asked the editor if there was any chance the editorial side would take
me on. I’d already written advertorial copy and he knew that’s where my
interest lay. The editor turned him down flat. “No qualifications.” They fired
me.
I'm the idiot clinging to the back ... |
I looked at getting those qualifications. Seven years of study just
to become a cub reporter. I gave it up. Instead I sold pensions, delivered
yachts, taught people to ride horses, and did a few other things I probably
shouldn’t talk about too much. During this period I acquired my first car — a
broken-down Triumph Spitfire MkIV wearing more different colours of paint than
Joseph’s coat, with a six-inch nail holding one of the front brake calipers in
place. Not my first choice but the best I could get for the money. I rebuilt
it, worked out how to make it go round corners, resprayed it Brooklands green.
And started to write about it.
Before I knew it, I was writing for the classic car magazines. In
1988, with an arrogance that frankly shocks me now, on the basis of a couple of
accepted articles I gave up my job — no loss there — and turned freelance full
time. It was four years before one of my magazine editors asked me what
qualifications I had. By that time I could tell them they’d been sending me
cheques for four years. What more did they want?
The freelance market was good, the rates reasonable, so I expanded
the scope of my work. An editor asked could I supply words and pictures? I
borrowed a camera and gave it a try. My fiction writing ambitions went on the
back burner, until something happened to revive them.
I was sent to see a bloke in south Wales to do an interview. But
when I arrived it soon became clear that the car collection I was supposed to
be featuring didn’t ... actually exist. And he looked kind of shifty when I didn’t
turn up alone. The bloke made some sort of lame excuse and we left, annoyed at
the wasted trip. It was only afterwards that I started to wonder what he had
planned. I’d made an appointment, so he couldn’t claim he wasn’t expecting me.
The only thing that had thrown him was that I hadn’t come alone. And what then?
Say no more. |
A couple of years previously, Brit real estate agent Susie Lamplugh
disappeared after going to show a prospective buyer round an empty house. She
was never found. It struck a chord. Especially when, after that abortive
interview, every time my picture appeared alongside a regular column I was
writing in one of the classic car mags, I received death-threat letters.
Professionally done, with the words cut out of newspaper like a ransom note.
Telling me I was scum, telling me they knew where I lived and my days were
numbered. The police never tracked down who’d actually sent them.
As for my reaction, I learned self-defence from a little black belt
karate and kyushu jitsu instructor with a benevolent smile and steel fingers. I
did not, as has been erroneously
stated in the past, learn to shoot in order to protect myself. I could already
shoot to competition standard.
The result was KILLER INSTINCT: Charlie Fox book one. To date, there have been another nine series books, a short story e-thology, plus a novella, and this summer my first standalone, THE BLOOD WHISPERER came out. Over the winter I'll be working on book-number-the-eleventh.
And, in one of those little tweaks of fate that so rarely happen,
several years after I turned freelance I got a call from the publisher of the
newspaper who’d sacked me, offering me the editorship of another paper in the
same group. I let them take me out for a very nice lunch to discuss the
position, then turned them down. Maybe I should have told them I simply wasn’t
qualified ...
It’s been my habit to have a Word of the Week every time I blog. For
this one I’m going for absquatulate,
meaning to leave abruptly or quickly, or to flee. As opposed to levant, which means to run off without
paying a debt, or abscond, to run in
order to evade capture or justice, usually taking something or someone along
with you. If your dog gallops out of the house and hot-foots it down the garden,
he’s absquatulating. If he has the Sunday roast clamped in his jaws while he
does so, he’s absconding.
That foolish publisher’s loss was we mystery lovers’ gain. I should send him a thank you present. C-4 perhaps?
ReplyDeleteZoe, I’m sooo happy you’re finally home with us at MIE. You always bring something fresh and interesting to the table (no pressure, just an admiring observation☺). This time what caught my eye was the meaning of levant: “to run off without paying a debt.” It made me wonder which came first, that meaning or the description of the Eastern Mediterranean and its people as the Levant. Hmmm.
In completing my welcome to our merry band, permit me to say, “Have a madeira, m’deara.” And I emphasize the “say” as I’ve learned to leave the singing roles to Stan.
PS. Who says good things don’t come out of hanging around bars!
Thanks, Jeff. Hmm, C-4? Perhaps with the inclement weather we've been having, Semtex might be better -- works more effectively over a wider range of temperatures ...
DeleteAh, did I say that out loud?
I try not to hang around in bars too much, as my arms get tired :))
Welcome, Zoe! Many wonderful writers spent their early years doing what you did: collecting experiences. So far with this crowd, my experience has been all positive, except for the envy I often feel over their whereabouts. Great to have you with us?
ReplyDeleteThat was supposed to an exclamation !!! Not a question.
DeleteLOL, Annamaria! I wouldn't have been at all surprised if it *had* been a question. At the moment I feel tremendous envy for anyone living anywhere it isn't raining sideways and blowing a hooligan!
DeletePS, absolutely LOVED your YouTube trailer for BLOOD TANGO, by the way: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMKFFOhQ5WI
Welcome, Zoë! Just don't go absquatulating on us, now, you hear? That's Jeff's job, although usually he's just absconding with our ability to not be jealous of what he's been up to (or, as a proper grammarian would say, "up to what he's been." Or something like that...)
ReplyDeleteThanks, Everett. I'm delighted to be here. I will try not to absquatulate too much.
DeleteWhat I really want to know is, why is Jeff the only one who's naked in his blog author pic ...?
We've learned to give Jeff some lattitude... if we don't, he'll take it anyway. And so far, he's got quite a streak going (heh-heh) with his pics. I can't wait to see what the NEXT one will look like!
DeleteIt is really nice to see you here. You entertain us so much with your adventures, but I'm envious of your strength and resilience.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Lil, but I just plod along doing my thing, which does not seem to be very out of the ordinary or special most of the time. Other people, however, constantly surprise, delight and overawe me :))
DeleteZoë... glad to see you blogging again—and with such good company! You know I love your books, but your personal history is fascinating. xo
ReplyDeleteThanks, Reine. It feels good to be back. Just stop me if I start over-sharing!
DeleteYou're right, guys, that sort of au naturale posing belongs more on a Harley.:)
ReplyDeleteOK, now how do I get *that* mental image out of my head ...?
DeleteZoë! Great to see you here with the other wonderful suspense/crime authors from all over the world. Love reading all about their experiences in their neck of the woods and now I'll be able to read yours too. I just knew, somehow, that your true voice, like in this blog would be the same as Charlie's. Thoroughly enjoyed you introducing yourself to the readers. Looking forward to many more blogs from you. It's been great to get to know you a little bit during the last month or so, even though just fleetingly.
ReplyDeleteDrienie.