A Word with Kate Rhodes on Writing

Kate Rhodes image

 

 

 

A Word with Kate Rhodes on Writing

 

 

What’s your creative approach to writing?

I treat it like a job, these days. It may sound unromantic, but writing one or two novels a year takes discipline. I tend to research, write and edit for eight hours, every week day.

 

 

Outlining or pantsing?  

I like to outline, but always veer away from my plan! I wish I could stick to my blueprint, but I get distracted by better ideas, or juicier characters, so my plans are constantly changing.

 

 

 

Close up on hand writing on notepad with pen

 

 

 

When you write crime fiction what comes first? The crime, character, idea?

First the location, then the theme. I fell in love with the Isles of Scilly as a child, for their wild remoteness and knew I had to set a series there.

 

How do you get to know your characters?

I write detailed profiles, so I know all of their quirks.

 

 

 

Nice to Meet you image.jpeg

 

 

 

What’s the hardest part of writing for you?

Lack of confidence. It doesn’t matter how many books I write, I always reach a point, midway through the writing when my belief takes a nosedive. It takes one heck of a lot of stamina and a robust ego to stay in the writing game.

 

 

How has your writing process changed over the years and books written?

I began life as a poet, writing longhand, but now use my computer for pretty much everything. With poetry you have to agonise over every word because the form is so precise, but prose is much more discursive.

 

 

 

Poetry image on wood.jpeg

 

 

 

Did you write poetry before novels?

I surely did. Two collections, Reversal and The Alice Trap, both published by wonderful London press, Enitharmon.

 

 

What do you enjoy most about poetry?

Its impact. If a poem is doing its job well, it can be like a bullet of truth, straight to the heart.

 

 

 

Bullet in motion dark background image.jpeg

 

 

 

Can you share one of your poems?

Not right now, I’m afraid, I’m deep in the middle of a crime novel, but my poems are floating around on the net if you go looking for them.

 

 

What next for you?

Two more books in my Hell Bay series, published by Simon and Schuster, which I’m enjoying enormously.

 

 

Hell Bay

Ruin Beach

Burnt Island

 

 

 

Kate Rhodes image 2

 

 

KATE RHODES is a full-time crime writer, living in Cambridge with her husband, a writer and film maker. Kate used to be an English teacher and has published two award winning collections of poetry. In 2015 she won the Ruth Rendell short story prize. Kate is the author of the acclaimed ALICE QUENTIN series, with the fifth book, BLOOD SYMMETRY published in 2016.

In January 2018 Kate will publish the first novel in a new series, HELL BAY, a crime novel set on the remote Cornish island of Bryher, featuring DI Ben Kitto.
.

 

KateRhodeswriter.com

 

 

 

 

Train vintage red in mountains image.jpeg

Poetry: Jubilee

 

 

足かせを付けられた人間の足

 

 

JUBILEE

 

 

They bound me without consent.

I moved with the weight of the world upon my shoulders,

each extremity shackled like a slave.

Hunched like a frail elderly man; I attempted to move about,

all the while under the suppression of guilt,

shame, and condemnation.

Shackled by wounds,  I writhed in agony

as they brought me down to the pits of darkness, a land of creeping shadow.

It was there where I was blind to their desire to devour me.

Fallen prey to the animalistic appetite to consume every shred of hope—

Until I came into the light.

 

Under the shining  of the light, I was appalled at their stronghold against me.

The illumination of their strength was all too unsettling.

I couldn’t bear the sight of them.

They surrounded me like a wild forest of Oaks, mocking my every step.

A multitude of tears sought urgent release, to spring forth,

evade the depth of my unconsciousness–but I could not allow them.

 

Yet there in the light was my salvation.

There in the light, their power over me would heal.

It was there I welcomed glorious liberty.

One like I’ve never experienced before.

The rays of jubilee were before me.

No wild forests to cast a shadow,

pits of darkness of oppression.

No shackles, bonds, or crushing burden.

Only life, light and liberty.

 

 

 

Silhouette sich von Ketten lösen und befreien

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Dance with the Dawn

Dawn in the forest image

 

 

A DANCE WITH THE DAWN

 

The soul of the oppressed can rest against the dawning

of the new day. For as sure is the rising of the sun amidst

the celestial crowds, the pains of the former day dissipate

into distant shadow.

 

Hope is set upon the steady train of her golden rays,

as they dress and display those famished of her

liberating brilliance.

 

A golden touch penetrates deep beyond the former

ephemeral skins of superficiality. Her touch is warmth;

dazzling the coldest of heart, adamant glacial minds,

and illest of will.

 

Dance in the buoyant embrace of her comforting wings

and pleasure in the majestic breadth of her expanse, as she lends

transcendent song against belligerent earthly pangs.

 

 

 

Dancing with the dawn image

 

 

 

“My beloved responds and says to me, Rise up, my love, My beauty, and come away; For now the winter is past; The rain is over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; The time of singing has come, And the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.” – Song of Songs 2:10-12

 

 

 

Dove flying image

 

 

 

 

What’s within a Tear?

What is within a tear?

And from whence does it truly flow?

It hails from hidden abodes of heart,

sprung apart from embattled depths below.

What is within a tear? 

And how significant is its worth?

How heavy the burden escapes unweighed;

in dimensions of pain, unknown girth.

What is within a tear, you say?

Only the bearer truly knows.

Hearken that tune when it’s wrought.

As pain grows wings, let them flow.

Benjamin Thomas 

@thewritingtrain

http://www.thewritingtrain.com 

Urbanitis

image

Don’t catch that urban sprawl
free-for-all, where every tom dick and harry in town is lookin to lay his eggs in the hive. That busy Queen bee is meant to be in the concrete jungle, but not this here joe. Ain’t no pleasure of mine neither, but a recipe for disaster if you ask me. I’d much rather fly the coop; set my boots in manure, tend to the cows and saddle ma’tractor. A real man, at least, tills the land he treads on and eats the fruit of his own labor. Not herded about like sheep in the endless streets without a shepherd. But I reckon all that pollutin’ is a turnin’ their minds to some kinda mush. Kinda like them zombie folk–the walking dead. Er, somethin’ rather. Road rage, shootin’n robbin’and a hoopin’n hollerin’ at one another. Killin’ one another. Quite the crooked circus don’t ya think? Don’t be goin’ around catchin’that urbanitis you hear? Cause its a gettin’ around pretty good.

 

 

Benjamin Thomas

Writers Digest April poem a day challenge day 7

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Freedom Fight

image

Shall I share my demons with another?
With stranger, friend, lover or brother?
Permissbly plunge into dark canyons of despair? Cut asunder as targeted prey in the open wild? As food for the fowl and mockery of the enemy? Shall I bear them in flawed strength and weakness? There is no weakness in the vitality amongst companions. Let them bear me on fortitude of eagles wings; laying hold of the breath of vigorous winds, ascending to the height. For two are better than one.

Benjamin Thomas
Writers Digest Aril poem a day challenge day 6

Deceived Contemplation

I hate the pained breath that is my life
worn on wearied shoulders.
The weighty grief residing in my chest,
like a pair of ten ton boulders.

Should I entertain shades of dreadful thought? Once interwoven fabric sours, stains, a twisted mind? Reflect a stolen image wrongly wrought, then refuse the true and greater kind?

Wretched Dirge

 

 

DSC_2229 (1)

 

His eyes uttered ardent desires

Her countenance replied in like kind

His heart fluttered in boiled frenzy

Her thoughts happily screamed he’s mine

His lips quivered a weighty “I do”

Her ring glimmered wet with shine

His hands were faithful and steady too

Her affection kept him in line

In time their love played a different tune

His eyes betrayed him for her friend

She sang a broken wretched dirge

with unknown words stark and grim

Her squelched love well spent sang

What the hell is wrong with men?

 

 

 

 

A Game of Fools

image

Take me as a wordplayer.
Although some would say
that it’s a fools gold; scoffing at its mere mention, abhorring its labor and luxuriant form. Stating that’s it’s simply not the norm to lust for the written word. Counting it absurd to fancy it’s storied origins, unreservedly relish the unrivaled beauty of its captivating expression.

As they say, one man’s rubbish is another’s man’s treasure; and one man’s treasure is another’s man’s rubbish. So is it justified to measure another’s treasure by way of one’s own rubbish? Or size up another’s rubbish by means of their own treasure? It seems to be a pointless endeavor and a hapless game of fools.

Benjamin Thomas

Writers Digest, Poetic Asides
2016 April PAD poem-a-day challenge