Being a writer means immersing yourself in story worlds. Living and breathing the characters’ lives. Knowing those characters. Loving those characters.

When I am writing a novel, I am at one with it, lost in it. Blissfully happy.

Then comes that pivotal word: ‘END’.

I busy myself with the business of being an author. I send the book to my publisher, work on edits with my editor, check the proofs, give input on the cover, and wait eagerly for the day the doorbell rings and I find a courier on the doorstep, holding out a box full of paperbacks. I take out my novel, and I hold it in my hands, and I feel happy, excited – fulfilled.

But then…

The book goes on the shelf, and I dive into a new story world. I immerse myself in that new novel, and when I reach that word, END, I send it to the publisher… and so on. And so on.

Meanwhile, the book whose world was once my own, the first book, it sits on the shelf. Not forgotten, never forgotten, but no longer prominent.

This week, I was sitting at my desk working on my forthcoming novel, Legacy, when my eyes strayed to the bookshelf and fixed upon Burning Embers, my debut novel, published three years ago. Three years! What an adventure I have had since in publishing: reviews, blog tours, blog hops, awards, giveaways… and three more books on that shelf.

I took down my copy of Burning Embers, and I began to flick through it, reading the odd line here and there.

I read…

Gradually the mist had lifted, and the sun burst forth, a ball of fire radiating the sky with unnaturally incandescent hues. Coral was reminded of the strident brushwork and wild colours of the Fauvist paintings that filled her mother’s gallery, which Coral had always loved. The scene was now set for the show to begin: the drama in which the broad, breath-taking landscapes of Africa were the stage and the animals the actors.

… and I missed wild, beautiful Kenya.

I read…

Rafe had sat back in his chair so his face was in the shadow, but she knew he was watching her through half-closed eyes. When he leaned forward, the fire from the candles flickered, throwing shadows on the planes of his face. She could see his eyes clearly now, and their steady focus was causing her insides to stir. There was romance in the still air; the rhythm of dripping water from the fountain behind him, the velvet sky studded with stars, the balmy perfumes of the night, all combined to accompany the endless song that had begun in her heart again as she watched him, enthralled.

… and I missed Coral and Rafe’s smouldering attraction.

I read…

“Oh, Coral, Coral,” he murmured, his one almost reproachful, but still he did not make any attempt to cross the space between them. Unspoken words and unfulfilled gestures trembled in the air. In the flickering light of the fire, his bronze skin glowed warmly. Rafe stood there very still, the muscles in his body tense. Coral knew he was waiting for her. She could feel the familiar ache, shattering the last of her control. Before she knew it, she was against him, her arms around his neck. She looked up at him, her lips parted, soft and moist.” 

… and I missed those moments of connection.

I was assailed by a feeling of longing. I missed this story world. I missed writing this book. I missed being in Kenya in the early 1970s, with Coral and Rafe; I missed their passion.

So I took a break from my writing, and I read Burning Embers. And it was like meeting a dear old friend for coffee. Comforting. Bolstering. A reminder of why I write every day, of the dream that led me to writing.

In a sense, I am like my heroine Coral. At the beginning of the story she is aboard a ship bound for Mombasa, about to start a new life in a strange new land. That was me, three years ago, when Burning Embers was published. Full of dreams, yet also trepidation. As the story of Burning Embers unfolds, Coral casts off her naivety and builds a life for herself in Kenya. But, like me, she will never forget the beginning; the courage it took her to make the move; and, most of all, those who supported her. For Coral, that is Rafe, the man who shows her the kindness of strangers on the ship. For me, it is a wonderful group of readers and book bloggers who have championed my writing.

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all who have supported me on my journey, and to invite you, as I did, to return to the very beginning and slip into dreamy world of Burning Embers, ‘epic romance like Hollywood used to make’. There, I can promise you beautiful landscapes, intriguing mystery, dark forces and passion, so much passion.