– ‘The Magic of Wor(l)ds’ blog is a hobby, reviews and other bookish stuff on this site are done for free. –
Today I’m on the ‘On the Seventh Day’ blogtour, organized by Zooloo’s Book Tours.
To promote this book I have a Q&As post, but before I let you read it first some ‘basic’ information.
About the Author :
Mark Wilson is the author of twelve works of fiction and one non-fiction memoir. He also writes Crime Thrillers under the pseudonym, C.P. Wilson
Mark’s short story ‘Glass Ceiling’ won first prize in May, 2015 on Spinetingler’s Short story competition and will be included in Ryan Bracha’s Twelve Nights at Table Six. dEaDINBURGH reached the quarter finals of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award in 2014 and was a finalist in the Wishing Shelf Book Awards, 2015.
Mark currently teaches Biology in a Fife secondary school and writes in his spare time, in lieu of sleep.
God is furious.
He has run out of patience with humans and decided that our time is over.
We’ve had our chance and it’s back to the drawing board.
Mo, and Jay, best friends who’ve screwed up in the past, beg him for one more chance to get the humans back on track. Alongside Mr Saluzar, the head of a global charity foundation, and Nick, The Fallen Angel, they hurtle towards Armageddon and their one chance to prove God wrong.
They have seven days to save us.
First of all thank you very much for taking the time to answer my questions, I really appreciate it. Here we go! 🙂
Can you, for those who don’t know you already, tell something about yourself and how you became an author?
I’m a full-time teacher and father of two. I am very time-poor, but idea-rich, so I generally struggle to find time to write, but scavenge every moment available. I Started writing after recovering from a lengthy mental illness and fond an outlet for a full mind.
Which books did/do you love to read as a child/now as a grown-up?
As a child I loved all sorts of books, from Betsy Byars and Ian Serrallier, to graphic novels and comics. As an adult I read, horror, sci-fi. Fantasy, the odd psychological thriller, and a pile of non-fiction.
Is there a writer whose brain you would love to pick for advice? Who would that be and why?
My favourite writer, by far, is Robin Hobb. She is entirely unparalleled in her skill. I also love Anne Rice, Chuck Palahniuk, Alex Garland, Adrian Tchaikovsky, and Bernard Cromwell. Any of those would be great, thanks.
If you could, which fictional character (from your own book(s) or someone else would you like to invite for tea and why?
Probably the narrator from Fight Club, cos that’s gonna be a very interesting tea.
Do you have some rituals or habits whilst writing?
Music, whisky and a busy pub if I can.
Where do you come up with your idea(s)? Do people in your life need to be worried? 😉
I suppose most ideas come from writers’ own experiences. I’m not always sure where my own ideas come from, but often friends or family connect moments in books to experiences from life.
Aside from one of my books, where I actively sought peoples’ moments from their lives, I’ve never knowingly included anyone’s story. I do always try to use names of people I know though.
Are you a plotter or do you go with the flow, as a pantser?
For one-off books, I’m a total pantster. For series, I tend to plot a little more form the second book on.
Can you give novice writers some tips?
The only advice I’d offer is to not be scared of, or intimidated by, writing. Anyone can do it. Sure, you get better, the more you read and write, you develop, but anyone can just sit down and write. There’s no magic to it. All the technical stuff can be learned.
What are your future plans as an author?
I’m currently adapting one of my crime thrillers (Cold Alice) into a screenplay. As well as that I’m also working on books 2 and 3 for the Alice series and a childrens’ book titled The Red and the Grey.
Last, but not least: Can you give my readers one teaser from your book, which is featured here on my blog, please?
OK. Here’s the short story I wrote titled The Glass Ceiling, which eventually became the novel On The Seventh Day.
*Like the novel, if you’re easily offended, especially by choice (Scottish) language, this probably isn’t for you.
The Glass Ceiling
Nick took in the room, his top lip curling into a sneer. It was just His kind of place, all thin veneer, expensive wines and whiskies and coke in the bathrooms. Ordering a gin and tonic for himself and a double Auchentoshan for Stewart, Nick slipped his smartphone from his pocket and reminded himself of a few key details in his notes.
Ten years at level Two,
Four years at Level Three.
Further education programme complete.
Dedicated and enthusiastic approach demonstrated consistently by the candidate.
All phases of training complete.
Recommend promotion to Level One.
Nick didn’t really need to read the notes, he had committed the candidate’s details to memory, it comforted him to read the words, settled his nerves. The gin helped also. She was ready, no doubt about it, but Stewart had the final say, and he’d take some convincing, despite the candidate’s exemplary performance. He always did need convincing, but particularly when the candidate was a woman.
Spotting Stewart passing the restaurant’s window. Nick took a belt from his gin and relaxed his face into business mode, ridding it of any signs of anxiousness or enthusiasm. Stewart was best approached calmly.
Never one to make an understated entrance, Stewart crashed through the doors, barking loudly at the Maître D who’d rushed to greet him, reaching for his jacket.
“Get tae fuck, son. Make yourself useful and bring me a double Macallan ’39.”
Stewart strode around the bar to the rear left corner of the room. Hair, long, curled, blonde and mulleted, dressed in denims, expensive cowboy boots, leather jacket-unzipped to show a the art of his T-shirt- a nun fingering herself and the legend Jesus is a cunt- Stewart looked like an expensively-dressed red-neck. His accent was all Lanarkshire.
That fucking accent.
He yanked the seat back and snorted loudly, into his nose. The gurgling, crackling movement of thick phlegm being dragged from his nostrils into his mouth threatened to break Nick’s composure before a word had passed between them.
Grabbing the back of his heavy, leather-padded chair, Stewart screeched it a few feet away from the table. Nick watched as his boss flicked his eyes up to drill into his own. As Stewart’s eye’s danced with cruel amusement, he let a long tail of yellow-green gunge slide from his lips into the glass of Auchentoshan on the table below.
Watching the deposit bob and swirl around for a second, he took his chair, shoving the glass over to Nick.
“Get that shite off the table, Nick. Fuck sake.”
The Maître D arrived, Stewart’s Macallan swirling in a heavy-bottomed glass and an ice bucket on a silver tray.
Unacknowledged he silently slid the glass and the ice within reach of Stewart, who snatched the glass up and drained its contents.
Stewart slammed the class onto the table-top.
“Keep them, coming,” he said.
Nick nodded at the Auchentoshan-nasal deposit mixture, which the Maître D scooped up. “I’d have had that, Stewart.”
“Fuck all stopping ye, son,” Stewart said, fishing his lighter and cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He scanned Nick’s face, waiting for a come-back. None came.
Nick watched as Stewart, went through the little series of gestures and rituals he performed when having a cigarette. Tap the end on the table, smooth the filter and rotate it on the moist lips for a second. He caught sight of the upside down lucky fag in the packet as Stewart tapped and licked his chosen tab.
“No smoking in here, Stewart.”
“What they gonnae dae?” he asked touching the petrol flame to the end of his cigarette.
Nick sighed. “Do we have to do this again?”
Stewart’s eyebrow lifted as he considered whether or not he could bothered winding the cunt up. Finally, his head cocked a little to the side in acquiescence.
“Look, Nick. These cunts in here won’t say a word, I guarantee it.”
Nick gave him a nod.
“Fine,” he said, happy that his boss would take care of the smoking issue discretely for once.
Taking a long drag on his first Regal King- size Stewart regarded Nick, amusement dragging the corners of his mouth into a tight, snide grin.
“Where is this cow, then?” Stewart asked, enjoying Nick’s discomfort.
Very quickly, Nick’s face shifted from discomfort to flushed anger.
“Christ sake, Stewart. Give her a chance.” Sick of the same old shit, the tired routine, he spat the words across the table.
Stewart blew a cloud of swirling, blue-hazed smoke out the side of his mouth, face rigid with anger of his own.
“Who the fuck are you talking to, Nicholas?”
Nick knew that he should back down. When Stewart got like this, there was little chance of shifting his mind on something. They’d worked together for more years than Nick could recall. Nick, training the candidates, tutoring them to develop the skills and mind-set needed to be promoted, to earn a place upstairs with Stewart’s team. Stewart taking the credit when presenting a new Graduate to his staff.
Christ, it was gruelling and thankless, but without Nick and his department, Stewart would take only those he considered the very best. The people of a certain station and type. He’d always been an elitist prick, but Stewart had got worse, more prejudice with age. His expectations and list of demands for the attributes a successful candidate must possess had become almost impossible to fulfil. Still, that was the point. Stewart wanted Nick’s department fucked, once and for all, leaving him free to decide for himself the criteria for promotion.
Isn’t that a great reason to pick up this book and to find out more?!
Thanks once again for this lovely interview, Mark Wilson.
The Magic of Wor(l)ds
P.S. Are you an author (or publisher) who also wants a FREE interview like this? You can always contact me via e-mail!