My husband knows how I collect spooky stories from the South West, so he very kindly forwarded me an article that Devon Live had ran recently – all about Dartmoor’s Corpse Roads.
A couple of years ago, I had an idea for a book. It was completely audacious and seemed impossible to pull off. So much so, that I didn’t dare start writing it for quite a while.
I sometimes see books as meals. Some are down-and-dirty burgers (vegan or meat, you take your pick). They’re tasty, you guzzle your way through them quickly, but you know they weren’t cordon bleu cooking.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that… you had fun eating it, right?
When I first started writing many years ago (yes, I am getting quite old now), I believed there was only one sort of writer. I had that classic stereotype in my mind, of the dedicated, furrow-browed literary type, working frantically on their ‘Murder She Wrote’-style typewriter and getting through piles of cigarettes and alcohol.