Ask the Author: Marrisse Whittaker
Answered Questions (5)
Marrisse Whittaker
I don't often get it. The odd time I have had a few moments, it has been caused by overthinking a plotline and whether twists and turns will work. They normally sort themselves out during the writing of individual scenes, proving I've wasted time worrying in advance, for nothing.
Marrisse Whittaker
Creating your own world and getting to know other bookworms. Readers and book bloggers, as well as other authors, have become lovely new friends.
Marrisse Whittaker
Try and write every day, even if that's just a few words, then just like brushing your teeth, it becomes a habit. Also, ignore your inner critic. Don't stop that mean little voice in your head from letting you tell your story. You can do this! Good luck and let me be the first to know when your novel appears here on Goodreads.
Marrisse Whittaker
A standalone psychological thriller
Marrisse Whittaker
The inspiration behind Buried Dreams, came from my husband Bob Whittaker, who mentioned that when he was an angst-ridden young man, he had once penned a poem called The January Wasp. That’s all he could remember about it. The title. He became an award-winning journalist, so I have no doubt it was a fantastic poem, but in truth, to me it needed no other words. The titled said it all, telling the tale of a creature born in the wrong time at the wrong place.
I was trying to jog his memory about the rest of the poem, whilst we were walking along the harbour at Amble, a tiny fishing port, a few miles from where we live in Northumberland. A Boot Sale was underway and as we weaved through the sea salt kissed stalls overlooking the fishing quay, I spotted a wedding dress for sale. The family who were selling it had just arrived fresh from the conflict in Ukraine. The idea that became Buried Dreams had started to take shape in my mind and so the title of the poem, the wedding dress, people travelling the world in search of a safe haven and the harbour at Amble all play a part in the resulting story.
I was trying to jog his memory about the rest of the poem, whilst we were walking along the harbour at Amble, a tiny fishing port, a few miles from where we live in Northumberland. A Boot Sale was underway and as we weaved through the sea salt kissed stalls overlooking the fishing quay, I spotted a wedding dress for sale. The family who were selling it had just arrived fresh from the conflict in Ukraine. The idea that became Buried Dreams had started to take shape in my mind and so the title of the poem, the wedding dress, people travelling the world in search of a safe haven and the harbour at Amble all play a part in the resulting story.
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