Welcome to Craving Erotic Romance BlogSpot.
Today we’re presenting the English Author: Daisy Banks.
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.
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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.
Different.
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.
Careless.
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.
Beautiful.
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,
My thanks to
everyone at Craving Erotic Romance. It’s been a pleasure to answer your
questions.
Happy reading
and best wishes from
Daisy Banks
Author of
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
March 2013
Great to have had you, Daisy!
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