My father loved writing. He’d have a leisurely breakfast, accompanied by a mug of builder’s tea (with the teabag left in), The Times crossword and Radio 3. His sanctuary was the study, an ice-cold loft conversion in our Edwardian semi in Southport.
He’d hammer away on his clunky typewriter, only re-emerging at odd times. The classic ‘writer in the garret’. He never stopped, until his untimely death in 1992.
Until last year, I’d never read a word, or even seen one of his manuscripts. As soon as I’d read the first page of his thriller Not With a Whimper, I knew I had to try to get it published.
With the help of an optical scanner (and a patient husband), I converted the hand-typed pages, pieced the resulting mangled text back together and sent it to Crooked Cat. I’ve despatched manuscripts to publishers before in my own name, but waiting to hear about this particular book was agonising. I laughed and cried when it was accepted. My stepmother and I are still both convinced we’ve imagined it. The original contract has expired and now I have the pleasure re-releasing the book with a new cover.
It’s wonderful to know that my father’s novel will be published, but it is heart-breaking at the same time. This website is dedicated to my wonderful Dad and the publication of his book.
