I am a writer resident in the UK but originally from Florida.

My novel SUMMERTIME is published in the UK by Orion and in the US by Sourcebooks.  Rights for Germany, Italy, Holland, France, and Norway have been sold.  All enquiries about other rights should go to Tina Betts at Andrew Mann.

First chapter of the Audiobook

Pinterest board of photos relating to the book

All photographs on this site are my own, please leave a comment if you are interested in reproduction rights.

Note that the book is published in the US with the title, ‘Under a Dark Summer Sky’.UnderDarkSummer_090414C

SummertmeNEW

A Case Study by Dr S Lapyurself

Epidemiology

As a specialist in this field, I see many cases of 2BS, which has affected the author population for hundreds, even thousands of years.  There is evidence that even Plato was afflicted after he released the first of his Dialogues.  It is said that he spent several months afterwards wandering the hills of Athens, muttering, ‘But what should I do next?’  Like many authors since, he opted for a sequel.  Today, 2BS is extremely prevalent in the debut author cohort.

Patient VL

The 51 year-old woman presented with the classic signs of 2BS:  agitated, sweating, clutching an empty chocolate digestives packet in one hand, and her first book, ‘Summertime’, in the other.

In the case of VL, the diagnosis was confirmed once she described her symptoms:  sleeplessness, scribbling plot ideas constantly, accosting strangers who looked like interesting characters, staring anxiously into space for long periods, and obsessively reading reviews of book 1.  She reported increased appetite, especially for carbs and ‘anything with cheese’, and an overwhelming affinity for hot chocolate.

This is one of the worst cases that I have seen.

Treatment

Our job as medical professionals is to instill in the sufferer the confidence that they will be able to write another book, and that people will read it, and that there was nothing magical about the first book which cannot be repeated.  This is the approach that I took with VL.  In common with many sufferers, she complained of crippling self-doubt and an almost pathological envy of ‘those bastards who write series’.

The only cure for 2BS is to write another book, which is what has prompted certain researchers in the field to call practitioners like myself, ‘Money-for-old-rope Merchants’.  This is both unkind and unfair.  Through a long and expensive process of talk therapy, patients like VL can eventually recover and live something approximating a normal author’s life.   By that, of course, I mean that they can be restored to spending their days staring at the laptop screen, talking endlessly about people who don’t exist as if they were real, and drinking many cups of tea.

And if this approach doesn’t work, then I give them a good, hard shake and remind them that it’s just writing, just putting one word after the other.  It’s not sodding brain surgery.

 

snowdrop

I chose the title of this post partly because of Pat Barker’s classic trilogy set during the First World War.  Along with Sebastian Faulks’ ‘Birdsong’, it is responsible for my interest in the period, and gave me the context that I needed to dramatise the events of ‘Summertime’.  Every author owes something to the books which they have read, and these are mine.

But I chose the title for another reason, because it feels like my life is regenerating.  The past 9 months of cancer treatment have been all about destruction, of the invading cells trying to kill me, and their evil progeny.   Cutting and poisoning are the weapons, and they are oh so horribly, mercilessly crude.

My last chemo treatment was Nov. 6th.  Several choir members joined me in the hospital for an informal concert for the patients and staff.  We belted out our favourite numbers and I nearly tore the drip from my chest in my enthusiasm.  Nurses danced around the corridors.  It all helped to take my mind off waiting for the final blood result, which was necessary to insure that my immune system could cope again with the drugs.  Suffering from a nasty cold, I hoped that my valiant white cells could multi-task.  To stumble then, on the 12th treatment, was unthinkable.

The bloods came back normal again.  Saline, pre-meds, paclataxol went in.  For the last time.

I was done.  Cooked.  Marinated in cancer-killing chemicals. When I surfaced from the worst of the effects, I rejoiced in my good fortune:  for my wonderful husband, for the skill of the medical team who saved me, for the astounding support of my family, friends, and choir.  And for the agents who believed in me, and the publishers who saw something in my book worth sharing with the reading public.  Through it all, I have felt cocooned by so much love, like being wrapped in a huge, warm duvet.

Come December, the first reviews of the book started to appear.  The publicity team unveiled their plans.  As I struggled to my feet, the magic was happening.  Strangers were reading my words, words that I wrote to shine a light on something which I thought shouldn’t be forgotten.  I visited the publisher and together with the sales and marketing team we watched a documentary about the Labor Day hurricane.  Although everyone in the room had read ‘Summertime’, they watched rapt, open-mouthed at the destruction depicted on the screen.

The first copy of the hardback arrived two days before Christmas.  I held it in my hands, mesmerised.  It was everything that I hoped it would be.  The cover design perfectly captured the mood of the book, and I loved the little sketch of a conch shell on each chapter opening.  It looked substantial, and most of all, real.  In my bald helplessness, barely able to climb the stairs, I was like an infant again.  It felt like a new life was starting.  I savoured the moment and thought: no matter how many other books I write, it will never be like this again. 

At the same time, the first fuzz appeared on my scalp.  I took it as a sign.  Eyelashes signalled a return.  I was astounded by the body’s capacity to heal itself.  I imagined that I could feel the repairs happening inside, as millions of cells woke up and got to work, fixing themselves.

We passed the solstice, and headed back towards the sun.

And now, 10 days before publication, things are growing again, some visible and some not.  Physical and mental stamina, which have been low for so long, are increasing.  Scars, still livid, have begun to fade, likewise the dread which has been my constant companion since my diagnosis in May.  I no longer look like a peeled egg:  I have the same amount of head fuzz as a Marine recruit, and baby eyebrows have appeared.   I can feel tingles of hope, and its flashier cousin, optimism, like blood returning to a numbed appendage.  The tips of bulb shoots are emerging from the earth in the pots outside the door.

Regeneration.  It’s about forward, not back.  The damage is in the past, quickly healing over now.

I can finally say good-bye to 2014, the most extraordinary, wonderful, awful year of my life.

Everyone knows that having cancer, or any serious illness, changes a person.

No shit, Sherlock.

But now that I’ve had cancer twice, I’ve been pondering how the experience has affected my writing.  My second course of chemotherapy for breast cancer ended five weeks ago.   I’ve begun to recover physically, and contemplate Book 2.  I can’t write yet, but I can think about writing.  And that, as you will see, is a fairly momentous statement.

My first bout of cancer was in 2009.  It came out of nowhere, with no family history or risk factors.  I found the lump myself, during dinner one night.  (Check yourselves, ladies and gentlemen. And then check again.)  A few years previously, I had written two contemporary women’s novels, the first of which was about a group of ladies who all had breast cancer (oh, the irony).  Neither was published.

During treatment—surgery, chemo, radiation—I clung tightly to my normal routine and kept my head down, waiting for it to be over.  I continued working in my publishing job, I socialised, and I kept singing in three local acapella groups.   All of these activities gave me great comfort and solace.  But I stopped writing.  Completely.   At first, I blamed the physical debilitation, but eventually I realised that it was more than that.  I had lost my facility with words.  I had lost the urge to tell stories, something which I had done since the age of six.  It was like they had excised the writing centre in my brain along with the tumour.  It was profound but unfixable, or so I thought, and resigned myself to it while I raced to embrace ‘normal life’ again.   I trained as a vocal leader and started a community choir. Music became my creative outlet.

And it isn’t until now, five years and another round of treatment later, that I have begun to understand why.

It takes an enormous amount of confidence to write—in yourself, in the value of your words, and the idea they will one day find an audience.  For me, it also requires confidence that there is a future, and that I will be part of it.  Writing is a long-term commitment, one that I couldn’t make any more.  Some writers, especially in later life, are comforted by the idea of a legacy that will outlive them.  That wasn’t true for me.  It seemed premature and, frankly, melodramatic for an unpublished author.

Having cancer did more than shake my confidence in the future.  Until the age of 46, I’d suffered no trauma on this scale before.  I had struggled, sure, had some tough years like everyone else approaching middle age, but nothing like this.  It felt like a betrayal from the universe, which had seemed pretty benign until then.  It made me doubt everything that I had assumed about my life.  If this could happen—with no warning, no reason, no medical explanation–what else was out there?

And yet ‘Summertime’ exists.  So what changed?

The answer is simple:  I found my story.

In 2010 I stumbled on the real events which inspired me to write ‘Summertime’.   For the first time since my diagnosis, I felt the glimmer of a stirring of something that I thought was gone forever.  Here was a story, a magnificent, tragic and—most perplexing of all—unknown story.  I felt compelled to be the one to tell it.  And my writing was different.  More serious, in a good way.  Like I had finally grown up.

And then the universe decided to show its dark side again.  In May this year, just a few months after the excitement of the publishing contracts, a routine mammogram detected another tumour, in exactly the same place as before.  The second time has been worse than the first, in terms of treatment and prognosis—and betrayal, because the treatment failed last time.  But that now seems like a mere squall in comparison.  This recurrence has been like a hurricane ripping through my life.

And yet, and yet…although I’ve still got a long way to go to recover physically, something is different this time.  Despite all the horrors of the past six months, the writing centre didn’t get ablated.  Of course, it helps enormously that I have wonderful support from the publishers of ‘Summertime’, and encouraging reactions from readers so far.

But it’s more than that. The ‘beast’ in the title of this post isn’t cancer.  That’s gone…we think…but no one can be sure.  The beast is the fear. Some days it whispers, some days it shouts.  I now see that writing is my way of shouting back: I’M STILL HERE!

This post is the first serious thing that I’ve tried to write since my diagnosis in May.  The wheels are creaky, but they are turning.

‘Summertime’ is titled ‘Under a Dark Summer Sky’ in the US (June 2015), and ‘Sommerstorm’ in Norway (Feb 2015).  Other editions will appear in Germany, Holland, Italy, and France.

UK:

Amazon

US:

Barnes and Noble

Amazon

Booksamillion

Indiebound

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