William J. Perring's Blog
July 15, 2014
Sudden Newspaper Interest (warning - small spoiler alert)
There's been a lot of interest from the newspapers - and even from an American news channel - regarding the identity of the Ripper in my book The Seduction of Mary Kelly.
The book itself focuses mainly on Mary, so though the press coverage gives away the identity of the Whitechapel murderer - it shouldn't spoil the book for you. But if you think it will - probably best not to read any further.
Huffington Post (more in depth)
http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2014/...
Daily Mail:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/artic...
The book itself focuses mainly on Mary, so though the press coverage gives away the identity of the Whitechapel murderer - it shouldn't spoil the book for you. But if you think it will - probably best not to read any further.
Huffington Post (more in depth)
http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2014/...
Daily Mail:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/artic...
May 3, 2013
Eureka
It took time, but the tea and cakes have finally worked their magic – and it occurs to me that this would be an excellent place to solicit the views of avid and discerning readers as to what they find annoying in a writing style.
To get the ball rolling, I’ll list my premier pet dislike (I’m far too mild-mannered to go as far as hate), which is the CV style of character introduction, that goes something like:
Randy Savage came out of the bathroom, moisture glistening on the kind of body that only special service training could sculpt; it was a body that women found irresistible, but to which they had been denied access ever since he’d turned gay whilst studying nuclear physics at Harvard.
Carelessly he brushed away the wanton lock of jet-black hair that partially covered the Heidleberg duelling scar he’d picked up during his childhood as a Russian émigré in post-war Germany. The scar always made him think of Anya; she’d been just nineteen when they’d met on train from Budapest, and had died saving him from a KGB bullet – or had she? During his years working undercover as principal dancer with the Bolshoi ballet, he’d scanned the obituaries, but he’d never found her name; not unusual in their line of business – but the doubt remained.
Distractedly he went to the window, looking down into the fashionable part of west London that had been his home ever since his mother, a concert pianist with the Berlin Philharmonic, had died in mysterious circumstances whilst performing the 1812 overture; the sound of cannons still brought a tear to his eye.
The phone rang, and he crossed over to it, his hand barely trembling as he lifted the receiver. He hadn’t wanted to take the trauma counselling the agency had insisted upon, following the death of his father, but it seemed it might be working after all. He pushed from his mind the image of the proud old man – a man too proud to call a plumber - being sucked, inch by inch, into his own sink waste-disposal.
Randy firmed his already firm and finely chiselled jaw as he spoke into the phone “Randy Savage, PhD, KCB, DSO and bar – special agent with the combined special services unit of the CIA. What can I do for you?”
To get the ball rolling, I’ll list my premier pet dislike (I’m far too mild-mannered to go as far as hate), which is the CV style of character introduction, that goes something like:
Randy Savage came out of the bathroom, moisture glistening on the kind of body that only special service training could sculpt; it was a body that women found irresistible, but to which they had been denied access ever since he’d turned gay whilst studying nuclear physics at Harvard.
Carelessly he brushed away the wanton lock of jet-black hair that partially covered the Heidleberg duelling scar he’d picked up during his childhood as a Russian émigré in post-war Germany. The scar always made him think of Anya; she’d been just nineteen when they’d met on train from Budapest, and had died saving him from a KGB bullet – or had she? During his years working undercover as principal dancer with the Bolshoi ballet, he’d scanned the obituaries, but he’d never found her name; not unusual in their line of business – but the doubt remained.
Distractedly he went to the window, looking down into the fashionable part of west London that had been his home ever since his mother, a concert pianist with the Berlin Philharmonic, had died in mysterious circumstances whilst performing the 1812 overture; the sound of cannons still brought a tear to his eye.
The phone rang, and he crossed over to it, his hand barely trembling as he lifted the receiver. He hadn’t wanted to take the trauma counselling the agency had insisted upon, following the death of his father, but it seemed it might be working after all. He pushed from his mind the image of the proud old man – a man too proud to call a plumber - being sucked, inch by inch, into his own sink waste-disposal.
Randy firmed his already firm and finely chiselled jaw as he spoke into the phone “Randy Savage, PhD, KCB, DSO and bar – special agent with the combined special services unit of the CIA. What can I do for you?”
April 30, 2013
Bemused Inaugural Post
This is my first blog, and to be honest, I have no idea what I’m supposed to put on it.
I suppose I could tell you about my newly decorated study, which has been painted a deep red, and fitted out to look like somewhere that Charles Dickens might have written – allowing he’d written on a computer, and had access to Ikea – but since I wouldn’t be terribly interested in reading about your interior decor, I can’t imagine for one moment that you would be the least interested in mine.
This blog business is clearly going to take some thought – and, in my experience, thinking is best done with tea in one hand, and a cake in the other. It’s a routine that has served me well in the past – but just in case it cannot overcome what is clearly a severe case of blog block, suggestions for content will be more than welcome.
Earl-Grey, anyone?
I suppose I could tell you about my newly decorated study, which has been painted a deep red, and fitted out to look like somewhere that Charles Dickens might have written – allowing he’d written on a computer, and had access to Ikea – but since I wouldn’t be terribly interested in reading about your interior decor, I can’t imagine for one moment that you would be the least interested in mine.
This blog business is clearly going to take some thought – and, in my experience, thinking is best done with tea in one hand, and a cake in the other. It’s a routine that has served me well in the past – but just in case it cannot overcome what is clearly a severe case of blog block, suggestions for content will be more than welcome.
Earl-Grey, anyone?
