Ask the Author: Spencer Hawke
Answered Questions (6)
Spencer Hawke
One of the things that I enjoy most is the ability to voice out certain parts of the scene that I am writing, look in the mirror, and laugh at myself.
Spencer Hawke
Get realistic expectations. If you choose to self publish realise that it is a very difficult road and you are going to have to be the Chief Cook and bottle washer on as well as aspiring writer .
Spencer Hawke
The Violinist. Book 5 in the Ari Cohen Series - A short extract.
He stood on the observation deck high above the sea on the ferry 'Tassili'. The boat had slowed to a crawl. He no longer needed to hold onto the handrail, the rough crossing was over. The aromas of the clean Mediterranean breeze giving way to the faint scents of land coming on the gentle breeze from the south. Diesel, fish and something else he struggled to identify. He sniffed the air again, trying to place the aroma. With a slight nod of his head, he affirmed that he had recognized it. Cinnamon...... cinnamon mixed with something..... nutmeg.
His slight nod changed to a frown as the thought back to the last time he had smelled that combination of spices. Zanzibar. His frown of concentration changed. It was as if the weight of the world was suddenly etched on his persona, even his demeanor was altered. His stature seemed to diminish and bend slightly. Ah, Katarina he mouthed to himself. Katarina had still been alive then. Imperceptibly his head shook from side to side. If only.....
He looked up from the deck of the ship, at the town in front of him. The glistening white of the buildings surrounding the port, so bright he had to squint. Another older settlement rose up the steep hill behind the port area and its modern facade. Standing at the summit of the steep hill, as if maintaining a vigil over the old and new, stood a casbah. Behind the casbah, the Atlas Mountains.
The ferry blasted its horn, destroying his melancholy bitter sweet memories. The noise precipitated a flurry of activity onboard as deck hands secured messenger ropes on the bow in front of him to throw to waiting hands lining the quay. The southerly wind already carried the heat from the desert behind the mountains. He took off his raincoat, folded it over his arm. His expression changed from sadness to determination. He turned around, walking purposefully towards the disembarkation area.
He stood on the observation deck high above the sea on the ferry 'Tassili'. The boat had slowed to a crawl. He no longer needed to hold onto the handrail, the rough crossing was over. The aromas of the clean Mediterranean breeze giving way to the faint scents of land coming on the gentle breeze from the south. Diesel, fish and something else he struggled to identify. He sniffed the air again, trying to place the aroma. With a slight nod of his head, he affirmed that he had recognized it. Cinnamon...... cinnamon mixed with something..... nutmeg.
His slight nod changed to a frown as the thought back to the last time he had smelled that combination of spices. Zanzibar. His frown of concentration changed. It was as if the weight of the world was suddenly etched on his persona, even his demeanor was altered. His stature seemed to diminish and bend slightly. Ah, Katarina he mouthed to himself. Katarina had still been alive then. Imperceptibly his head shook from side to side. If only.....
He looked up from the deck of the ship, at the town in front of him. The glistening white of the buildings surrounding the port, so bright he had to squint. Another older settlement rose up the steep hill behind the port area and its modern facade. Standing at the summit of the steep hill, as if maintaining a vigil over the old and new, stood a casbah. Behind the casbah, the Atlas Mountains.
The ferry blasted its horn, destroying his melancholy bitter sweet memories. The noise precipitated a flurry of activity onboard as deck hands secured messenger ropes on the bow in front of him to throw to waiting hands lining the quay. The southerly wind already carried the heat from the desert behind the mountains. He took off his raincoat, folded it over his arm. His expression changed from sadness to determination. He turned around, walking purposefully towards the disembarkation area.
Spencer Hawke
My entry into the writing business was completely by accident. During my career I had no desire to become a writer. One day I sat down and started to write the mystery of the dead sea scrolls. No one is more surprised than I am that I was able to write a fictional account of what might have happened to the dead sea scrolls.
Spencer Hawke
I only ever get writers block at the beginning of a project, when I am searching for a subject for my new book. After I have started writing the book the best way I deal with writers Block is sit down and re-read what I have written so far got
Spencer Hawke
Talking to a family member who told me about a recent trip she had made to Europe where she found so many victims of human trafficking. So many of the victims were children but I thought the story needs to be told so people would take action to help these poor innocent victims.
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