Sarah Broadley

Picture the scene. You’ve spent all day wrestling with a chapter in your latest story. You’re finally happy with the page turns, the way the characters interact and the scenes depicted. A moment of bliss, you say to yourself as you turn off your device. You smile as you get ready to turn in for the night, knowing that tomorrow brings with it a new chapter, a new reason for your character to eat marshmallows or whatever it is that makes them happy enough to embrace where you are taking them next. The lights go out and you begin to

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If you’d asked me this time last year how I measure success, I probably would’ve said something along the lines of surviving my eldest turning 15, getting an agent and consequently going out on sub, preparing to chair events at the UK’s first ever Sci-fi, Fantasy and Horror Writing Festival and so many other literary happenings that filled my life. I was happy and finally achieving things on my bucket list that had previously seemed so far out of reach. Fast forward a year and so many things have changed. I don’t want to make this post about C-19 and

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There is a saying that you should never work with children or animals. I’m not sure my lazy, sleepy, hunting-too-many-mice-for-me cats are anything to compare to the felines that ‘they’ might be referring to or the fact that I was surrounded by siblings when I was growing up which was a lot of fun, so I’m not quite sure I agree. However, in my first ever steps into the school environment as a creative, I was asked to talk about writing to some of the senior pupils from Kinghorn Primary School. What could possibly go wrong? I wasn’t nervous, for

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Onwards through the gloop of words that’s moulded from my thoughts, making a mess on the page that was once pristine. The sharp capitals and the curly vowels remind me of homework times from not that long ago but with less concentration and for some reason they liked apple rice cakes as a reward. The pages stick to all that touch them, the blank lines awaiting letters from brain to finger tip as I sweep the crumbs off the dining table that is my makeshift ‘writer’s cave’. Just the one more hob-nob I kid myself as I put the kettle

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Clearing out the attic I found a pile of vinyls that belonged to my parents. The Beatles, Billy Jo Spears, The Drifters and an interesting collection of children’s songs with LP covers that would induce nightmares at a glance – Pinky & Perky anyone? I had no idea that a cardboard sleeve containing a plastic circle could conjure up so many memories but when I held one I was immediately transported back to the 70s/80s when my mum and dad said to their friends ‘just come back to ours’. Pineapples & pickles on sticks and a plethora of never-seen-before nibbles

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When I was a teenager, a few years ago now (quiet at the back), I wasn’t sure what to read once I had devoured Judy Blume, Virginia Andrews and the like. Back then there wasn’t the amazing young adult books that are available now so I headed into crime, not literally, I might add. Ian Rankin’s Rebus caught my eye. His interesting vinyl collection and witty banter pulling me in. And the rest, as they say, is history. Fast forward some decades and I am still devouring ‘lives of crime’ , continually adding new authors to my list of go-to’s

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