Monday, 24 May 2010
Weathervane Press are delighted to announce they will be hosting an event at the excellent Lowdham Book Festival final Saturday on June 26th.
We will be launching the Weathervane Live Vocal Books Tour at this event, which takes place at 10.30 am in the Lit & Phil Tent behind the Village Hall. There will also be readings by Megan Taylor from her thriller 'The Dawning' published in January and Nigel Pickard from 'Attention Deficit' published in March. All Weathervane books will be on sale at the event and throughout the day from our own stall at the Book Fair also in Lowdham Village Hall. The event is free - no ticket required.
Full details of the Lowdham Book Festival programme can be found at http://www.lowdhambookfestival.co.uk/
Come along! Say hello! You know you want to!
Thursday, 20 May 2010
It's a total pleasure today to host Chapter 13 of Like Bees to Honey, the stunning new novel by the wonderful Caroline Smailes
In the run-up to next week's publication, the whole story is buzzing from blog to blog - just click the cover to delve in.
The next installment will be available from Bubblecow
You really should - Caroline's audacious writing is always beautiful, heart-breaking, shiveringly good.
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
A while ago, when I first began bumbling about amidst this strange/ bewildering/ beguiling bloggy-internet-land, Eli got in touch via my original MySpace to let me know she'd enjoyed How We Were Lost.
I was over the moon, especially when I discovered what a talented woman Eli is (she's a truly fine photographer and a poet too!! Her first collection, 'i scrubs' has just been released - please do check it out).
Now, as I continue to go on bumbling, Eli's blown me away all over again with this very kind review of The Dawning.
Thank you tons Eli - it means a lot xx
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Joining the queue, she wonders whether she’ll be late for work. She isn’t as anxious as she might be; she’s frequently late for things. The package in her hands, for example, ought to have been sent three weeks ago. She’s tried very hard not to worry about that either. Her arm aches.
The queue is mostly made up of much older, murmuring women, some of whom are wearing hats. They shuffle past penny sweets and chocolate bars, row after row of glimmering foil.
The whole post office feels like it has been sent to the woman directly from her childhood. As does the brown paper of her parcel. She dips her face when the queue moves on. Such a satisfying smell.
The package is so neatly wrapped too. And painstakingly labelled. Her handwriting doesn’t slant or wobble or shrink away. There are no fingerprints smearing those hospital-corners, no stray hairs caught, incriminating, beneath the tape. She has taken such care; it’s not like her.
She’s the kind of woman who sheds and drops and forgets things, a woman who doesn’t ever quite manage to speak up when she should, who blurts the wrong words when she shouldn’t. And she’s always late. When she finally reaches the counter and the parcel is taken from her, as if it’s nothing, she remembers these facts about herself. She remembers them acutely.
Shit, she thinks, feeling the empty air throb between her empty hands. What have I done?
But in the next moment she’s dropped to her knees, she’s laughing and apologising. Scrabbling for silver as the coins go raining from her purse.