Welcome to Craving Erotic Romance BlogSpot.
It’s a great pleasure to join you at The Craving Erotic Romance BlogSpot.
1. Have you always wanted to be an author?
Daisy: I recorded my earliest stories on tape. I was too young to have learned to write. I guess you could say I’ve always wanted to be an author but it took some years before the opportunity arose to let me discover if I had any talent as an author. As a child, I wanted to be an archaeologist, or an author. I can remember being very disappointed when I was told I couldn’t be an archaeologist, but I held onto the dream of being an author.
2. What genre(s) do you write?
Daisy: I have written fantasy, paranormal and historical stories. I enjoy those genres when I read and to write in them has been great fun. I have to say the historical genre remains the most difficult as it’s so demanding. A historical story takes me twice as long to work on because I like to try to make it as period accurate as possible and that can mean a lot of research.
3) Have you ever self published?
Daisy: No, I haven’t self published.
4) Who or what inspired you to write your first book?
Daisy: I had an unfortunate illness that kept me from my normal day job as a special needs teacher for some months. The situation was quite grim I needed something to occupy my mind and I wondered if I could write a story. I did, my first effort was dreadful, but I found I enjoyed the process and wrote another, equally dreadful. Neither of those stories was good enough to be submitted for publishing. The more I wrote the more wanted to learn about writing and I started to find out about critique groups and people who could help me improve my skills. I read lots of ‘how to’ articles and I kept on writing. I continued to learn, and began to submit my stories to publishers. Each book I write I try to give the reader the best I can. My skills have developed since I first began but I still try to learn something new with each story. I am fascinated by deep point of view and its powers.
5) How many hours in a day might you write?
Daisy: This does vary day to day and is dependent on how well a story is going. Some days I will write for several hours, on other days I’ll edit or critique while I think through what will come next. If I am completing edits for a publisher that always takes precedence over anything else.
6) Are you a plotter or a pantster?
Daisy: I wrote extensively about this in February at All Things Writing. Here is a link if you want to read in detail about the way I write. I’m a pantster through and through.
There is nothing wrong with authors who plot if that method works for them. I found for me plotting didn’t do the job I wanted it to, and so I’ve stuck to flying by the seat of my pants as I write. I research and edit once I have the bones of a story in place. I like the characters to lead the way in the story and I’ve found for me writing works best that way.
7) Do you ever find yourself slipping away and becoming so immersed in your story it affects how you relate to others?
Daisy: I think it’s called being ‘in the zone’ and yes, it does happen. I hate being interrupted then as it destroys the mood and it feels like I’ve been ripped out of the story. I can get grouchy when that happens. I always get attached to the characters as I build the story and if I’m in a crucial place, say a sensual love scene, then I have been known to mutter a few words of ancient Anglo-Saxon derivative if some marketing company rings on my mobile phone or a salesperson calls at the door. I’m not quite as grumpy if it’s my friends or one of my sons. I do hasten to say I never actually swear loudly at any of the poor individuals who incur my wrath.
8) Are you in any of your books?
Daisy: This is a very interesting question. My first thought was no, but that’s not true. I am in every story I write. Though the story I’m working on may be a fantasy or a paranormal it’s built by my imagination and that is fired by my experiences as well as my dreams. The process happens at a subconscious level, I’ve never written a character with the intention they would be me. I do remember when I first started writing many of my male characters whistled, an unusual characteristic for me to pick. It took some months for me to understand the habit of whistling came from my father. He’d recently died and subconsciously I was recreating an element of him in my story. So, I have to say yes, I am in each and every story. I think if most writers look at their work they will find elements of themselves. This is why, I believe, when stories are rejected or are not well received by a reviewer the experience is painful for the author, its not just about ego and artistic temperament, its because a part of you the person is rejected too. I wonder if other writers would agree with me there.
9) What do your friends and family have to say about you writing?
Daisy: This made me smile. My husband is very supportive, he’s often helped me out with the positioning of bodies in certain scenes, and he finds that fun. He gives me time and space to write and encourages me. My sons too have encouraged me to write. Most of my friends like listening to me talk about my latest plot for a new story and they do buy my books.
I very much count my critique partners as friends and their support has been invaluable to me. They help me in many ways. I like the critique process as I learn through it too.
I do try to make sure I don’t bore the pants off people who aren’t interested in what I do; I think that’s only fair.
10) Please share an excerpt from one of your books that totally spoke to you when you put the words down on paper…
Daisy: This excerpt comes from the first chapter of my latest story, Your Heart My Soul with Liquid Silver Books.
It is important to me as after I’d written it I felt for the first time my author voice had been superseded by the voice of the character.
Moonlight shimmered. The sliver of pale shadows on the grubby floorboards he crossed wavered like ripples in the shallows. William “Reliance” Smith sat and tipped his sailor’s cap over his brow. With no one about to cry shame, he lounged back, putting his feet up on the comfortable, red leather chaise. A dim pattern of blue light from across the street sparkled and played on the opposite wall, where yellowed paint flaked and peeled.
The windowpanes rattled in their leaded squares, buffeted by the wind outside. Or, on the other hand, perhaps their agitation had another cause. A small bloom of anticipation swelled in his chest and the fine hairs on the back of his neck rose. Might this be the night his dreams came true? He sighed and battled to hold down the ache inside.
How many times had he hoped before? All for naught.
Not a Jack lived in the wide world that’d make him tell of it, but he feared the flavor of the bitter cup of loss, had tasted it too long and too often. He shook the thoughts away. No matter what, he’d linger, as he’d promised his darlin’ for as long as need be. Unsettled as he was this night, he sought a fresh distraction to help him through the waiting and glanced around the shop.
Before God, he couldn’t deny it. Tonight, change hung heavy in the air, but not in the way he longed for. No sign of his sweet Sally to cheer him; not a breath of her fragrance in the stillness; no clatter of her red-striped heels over the flagstones outside announced her arrival.
A part of him long ago warned this vigil, it were a waste, and he’d never hear those precious sounds again. That time had gone … he’d only to glance at the star patterns in the winter sky to know it … but … what if he were wrong? Mayhap all these doubts, this waiting, it might be a test of his love. Perhaps the day would dawn when his Sal would come to him. One precious evening he’d find her here, and they’d be happy again as they’d sworn.
Faith must be the key. He’d a head start on others in that quarter, for his very name gave his offer of assurance to his family, to his master, and to his shipmates. They’d never yet found him wanting and nor would his darlin’ wench.
Yet this night his senses jangled, out of kilter. The room didn’t set right with him at all. If anyone asked, he’d have been hard put to say what had changed, but his gut told him for sure something had occurred.
A prickle rose on the back of his neck, the fine hairs stood like a hound’s ruff to warn of storms to come and his certainty grew. T’was said only those who’d made it ’round the horn got the sense of predicting stormy winds. Well, he’d made it ’round the horn and home twice—and tonight, in the twilight shadows, proof of it raced icy down his back.
The fat blue-and-white painted vase. It had moved!
The thing always stood on the starboard side of the counter, had been there for so long he couldn’t recall.
He shook his head.
Tonight, the thick-bottomed vase sat on the frayed rush mat. Unknown hands had moved the vase from its usual spot and left it on the floor, where any bad-tempered little brat in hobnailed boots might kick it.
The pawnshop didn’t change. Why, it was only yesterday evening he’d been here and things had been the same as they’d been for—well, he couldn’t give a number on the days. Wherever else he wandered along the wharf each starlit night, he always began his evening journey here, in the shop, hoping. Before dawn he returned, dragging the tatters of his dreams, for one last glimpse before the bright light came. The first streaks of dawn and he’d leave with the prayer the next night would bring a different outcome. The sun on the water, always he saw the light sparkling on the waves, until it dimmed and the next night and his hopes came again.
He stifled the confusion in his thoughts, the ache and longing inside, rose from the chaise and picked his way through the jumble of objects in the corner. Once beyond the brass umbrella stand and the dark wood whatnot with the broken shelf, he eased by the table and made sure he didn’t brush against the cluster of china flat-back ornaments on the long open bookcase.
Surprise stilled his steps. Unblinking, like when he watched a shooting star, he stared as if he’d frozen in the bitter cold of the deepest southern ocean. He gawped in wonder at the arch of a smear mark traced by three slim fingertips scraped along the mahogany counter.
Not his darlin’ Sal’s sweet touch, though. He knew it immediately, for she’d truly tiny fingers—slender like little petals, and how he wished…
One day she’d weave her small, pale fingertips through his hair again, or she might even whack him on the chin and giggle. Didn’t he know her for a lovin’ saucy wench?
How she made the counter shine, each time he came in, and the glossy gleam on the wood reflected the light. Sal made sure of it. First time he’d seen his lovely, she’d been polishing in here with a twist of lavender in her fair curls, a thick lump of beeswax in one hand and a blue dust rag in the other. He’d leaned against the door, spellbound, watching her lithe shoulders moving, the front of her white blouse, that held a full bounty, a-jiggling like a spinnaker in a breeze with all her pretty efforts to bring forth a shine on the wood.
By his heart and soul, she was a beauty. On three continents, he’d never met her like. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes to recall the perfection of her violet-scented mouth, coral-tinted lips made for kisses, her cheeky, inviting little smile, and the sparkle in brilliant green eyes that could smolder in passion like oriental gems or blaze like a wildfire lived inside them. And her laugh.
Ah, when his darlin’ laughed, the sound danced about a room, skipped like dawn light on the waves, glimmered like ice crystals in a winter night.
Everything about his sweet, dainty Sal was beautiful, and he only lingered here awaiting the chance to haul fast beside her once again. This time when he did, he’d take her in his arms, caress her until she made those soft, welcoming little sighs and, God help him, he’d know then he’d come home.
He clenched his hand. “Christ alive, my wench, where in the wide world are ye? My girl, ye gave me yer heart, took mine in return, and ye promised we’d wed. Yer swore we would.”
You can buy Your Heart My Soul here.
11) Which actor/character(s) would play the starring role?
Daisy: There are four main characters in Your Heat My Soul, I’d like the heroine Libby to be played by Kristen Stewart. I think she’d be perfect for the role. The ghostly voice of Sally I’d love to have someone with a fantastic voice play that, I like the voice of Helena Bonham Carter, I think she’d manage the dialect speech well too. For Will, the ghostly patient sailor waiting for his Sally, I like to see a strong actor play Will, someone like Alex Pettyfer would be good, he’s got the look to fit the role and I’m sure he’d manage the dialect speech. I’d love to see a grown up Daniel Radcliffe play Gareth, the hero who helps Libby.
12) What five things would you take on a desert island?
Daisy: My husband, a blanket to lay on the sand, a bottle of good wine, one large glass to share and a working mobile phone to ring for help when our romantic day at the beach is done,
Find me at: http://daisybanksnovels.yolasite.com/
My thanks to everyone at Craving Erotic Romance. It’s been a pleasure to answer your questions.
Happy reading and best wishes from
Your Heart My Soul with Liquid Silver Books.
Timeless with Lyrical Press
Fiona’s Wish with Lyrical Press CAPA Nominee 2012
A Matter of Some Scandal with Lyrical Press
Witch’s Mark with NCP
Great to have had you, Daisy!