Having recently published the final novel in the Trilogy: The Guernsey Wartime Family Sagas you might think I’m feeling at a bit of a loose end. Well, I was for a bit, but when you’re a writer it feels there’s something missing when you haven’t got that other world to escape to whenever you have an odd moment for reflection. As I’m an historical novelist, that other world means stepping into the distant past. So this time I have found myself musing about what was going on in the 1880s. The 19th Century was a fascinating time in our history. So in the new novel I am planning to write, and researching all I can about my subject, I can explore the world I so love reading about: The Victorian Era, a time of great innovation as well as deprivation. Without giving too much away I can tell you that my research is taking me back into the world of Art, specifically the French Impressionists, and my favourite of all time, Pierre Auguste Renoir.
I always wanted to write but it wasn’t until later in life that I managed to fulfill my dream. As a child I wrote poetry and enjoyed every opportunity at school to write an essay, even better – a story! My first link with the world of being a real writer was when I was thirteen and my mother gave me a typewriter and my first ever copy of The Writers & Artists’ Yearbook. Reading up about all the different publishers was a revelation to me!
I try to put over in words the things I feel strongly about without it being too obvious, so that there is room for you as the reader to respond emotionally. I write because I feel emotionally involved in something, which as fiction goes beyond reporting factually although of course I have to do my research. This is in itself often inspiring. Writing is a deeper experience for me than expressing myself in painting. My late father, Cyril Hamersma, an artist, would have disagreed with me on this. Painting a picture can be one way of putting over that inexplicable urge to SAY SOMETHING, but words can, in my opinion, get to the heart. I do paint occasionally but I don’t find I can express my deepest thoughts in this way. To understand the meaning in my novels you might have to read between the lines, immerse yourself in the time and place and feel the emotions of the characters. Welcome to the world inside my books!I am a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and The Society of Authors.
For more details about my novels, please go to my BOOKS page.
The first, my debut novel was first published by Robert Hale Ltd. about a coal-miner in Kent, England,is called: THE SEA INSIDE HIS HEAD. (Now available re-published in kindle by Joffe Books. In March 1985 coal-miners all over the country ended their strike and returnedto work. Their defeat marked the end of the year-long fight to save the pits and keep their jobs. Following the life of a miner in the Kent coalfields, ‘The Sea Inside His Head’ is a novel that reveals what it was like behind closed doors in those mining villages. Personal relationships were put under incredible strain; loyalties were bitterly divided; anxiety, poverty and hunger forced some men to break the strike and endure the stigma of being jeered at and called “scab!” Those who broke the strike were ostracized. Those who chose to join the picket line risked their lives demonstrating against Margaret Thatcher’s government policies which planned to close down certain pits throwing thousands out of work. To keep the strikers going, the miners’ wives served hot meals every day in the soup-kitchens week after week; they kept going by fundraising and received donations of food from all over the world. This novel brings history to life.
Coal Miner, Bradley Shepstone is desperate to get away from the pit. He hates the job which has already caused the death of his father. He dreams of escaping to live by the sea, to breathe fresh air and maybe have a smallholding – he’ll do anything to be able to save up and take his young wife and little son away to start a better healthier life somewhere else. But then the strike stops him in his tracks; he can’t work, his hands are tied…
Theresa Le Flem 