Helen Harper's Blog

Scorched Heart, the fourth book in the Firebrand series is almost ready to go. It won't be long now until it's released and it's been such a joy being able to escape to a world where there's no pandemic. That doesn't mean there's not plenty of trouble, however. Detective Constable Emma Bellamy is drawn back to the small village where she lived when she was a child - and the very place where her parents were brutally murdered. Will she find out why she is what she is? Or will the secrets from the past overwhelm her?

Either way, you'll find out very soon!

Scorched Heart (Firebrand #4)

Another weekend, another fancy dress party. Oddly, I find that the older I get, the more fancy dress parties I get invited to; it's as if a by-product of growing up is the need to act more like a child than ever. It's like stepping back into a world of make-believe that is suddenly acceptable.

This time around the theme was 'song titles'. I have to admit that it was an inventive idea with plenty of scope for those who didn't want to put in much effort to those who wanted to go the whole hog and spend the week prior going to elaborate lengths. And there were indeed some fabulous costumes: Love Machine, Yellow Submarine, Hammer Time, White Wedding, to name but a few (I personally, in case you were wondering, went as Angels, that old Robbie Williams' ode, but as there was only one of me I was frequently mistaken for the Eurythmics' There Must be An Angel. Fair enough.).

I wonder if that desire for make-believe and to feel like someone else for a night is part of the allure of reading. It's easy to imagine yourself as the protagonist, plunged into a world danger, fantasy and desire, in a way that moving image doesn't allow. Read Pride and Prejudice, for example, and we all can put ourselves in the shoes of Lizzy Bennett. At least for myself, that's considerably harder to do when it's watching Keira Knightley on the big screen - enjoyable, sure, but I don't think I'll ever have that waistline!

Writing somehow seems to ramp up that connection. I'm not my characters and neither are they even based on real people. However, as if by osmosis, somehow by writing them onto a page, they can become real. I can picture myself as a fiery dragon shapeshifter all of a sudden. Or as a mage irritated by her precocious behaviour. It's amazingly easy to lose myself in that world until it almost does become real. Hmmm...I wonder if I could get hold of an uncumbersome dragon costume for the next (no doubt soon) fancy dress party?

I've had a good week: out with friends for dinner twice, a wonderful school music concert (I realise that often the words 'school music' and 'wonderful' don't often go together, but it's true), successful meetings for work, and the Future Music Festival last night in KL. But there's been no time to read!

I have more than a few exciting new titles on my Kindle, burning their way through the electronic text and demanding my attention: and no time to properly read them. Yes, yes, I could be reading now instead of writing this, but I need several hours to do them justice, not the ten minutes I currently have spare to type this.

There's Kate Atkinson's Life After Life - apparently some kind of do over Groundhog Day type book that has had me excited for weeks waiting for it to be released; Events, Dear Boy, Events - political diaries that my grandmother keeps raving about; the latest Victor the assassin book...and that's just to name a few. I need twenty four hours AT LEAST, with some kind of minion to occasionally feed me and provide me with cups of tea (is that why people get married?).

I reckon that governments should seriously consider setting mandatory reading time. It would be good for the mental health of every nation, boost literacy skills, improve general knowledge...I could go to my boss tomorrow and say, 'no, it's not that I want a duvet day - it's a self-improvement day'. Or something much catchier but in the same vein. One can only hope ;)

As I write, there's an epic thunderstorm going on right outside my window: booming crashes of thunder that have sent the cat running under the bed, streaks of impressive lightning and sheets of rain that have added a veil of grey to the entire landscape. And while I would hate to be out in this rain, I love watching it. I love it for another reason too, of course - living in Malaysia, the storms provide a welcome respite to the blazing sun and overpowering humidity and, believe me, this last week it has been HOT.

As a (fairly) new author, I have to admit to a certain amount of love and hate for my own books as well. The third book in my series Blood Destiny was only just published before the weekend and, despite a lovely review already on Amazon, I can't help feeling that it's weaker than the previous two. But then I hated book 2 for a long time after I'd written it and absolutely love it now. And I'm pretty sure I felt the same about about book 1 for a while too.

I wonder how common it is for authors to temporarily despise their own work. Is it because the painful process of editing and proofreading is still too fresh in my mind? Or maybe it's because my baby is now out in the world and no longer just belongs to me...whatever the reason I know I can't pinpoint the moment when, in my mind, the books turn back around and become the prodigal children who I love again (and deep down always loved because they're my own kids after all).