Siobhán Carew

a b o u t t i t l e s b l o g

l i n k s c o n t a c t

B l o g

18 July 2018
FREEDOM is published

This is a collection of short stories, which were submitted for the Cambridge Writers short story competition 2018. The competition was judged by Julian Friedmann, of the Blake Friedmann Agency in London. He praised the standard of all the entries and suggested that we publish them in a volume. He has written a Foreword. I was co-editor, with Thure Etzold. The book is available on Amazon as an e-book and a paperback (see details under titles).

My story, The Trojan Horse was commended.

10 April 2018
A different kind of book
While Merlin tweets to his growing number of friends, I have been busy helping edit a very different kind of book. Footprints in the Sand: The story of the Carews of Devonshire 1086-1945, written by Rivers Carew, is the story of his family from the time of William the Conquerer until the end of the Second World War. Making sure that all the facts were accurate, the references correct, and all images correctly identified and attributed, has been a huge amount of work for us (including his two elder daughters). The book is finished and with the graphic designer at present. It's a marvellous piece. I'm very glad to have been involved in getting it into its final shape, and look forward to seeing the published book.

11 August 2017
Merlin is on Twitter
Merlin (@I_am_Merlin_Cat) is enjoying his Twitter life, and engaging with lots of new furry friends while keeping up with politics and current affairs. I (his Momma!) have been sent for 'staff training'. He's not happy with my performance, apparently. Seems I got him into trouble by hacking his account and saying something the delightful cat would NEVER have said. If only the Twitterati knew the truth about that animal! It's all in the book. CATalogue (UK) (US)

1 October 2016
Elizabeth is Missing by Emma Healey

Every now and then a book blows me away. This time it was Elizabeth is Missing. It's about an old woman who keeps forgetting who people are (including her daughter), and what's she done. She writes notes to herself in an attempt to stay in touch and focussed on what's driving her. All through the book, she keeps writing notes to say that Elizabeth is missing. Elizabeth is her friend who lives in the house with the pebbles on top of the wall. Maud (the old lady) gets into hilarious scraps, but of course she gets away scot free because as soon as she's done something, she forgets, and often stands nearby, looking at the consequences. So she never suffers guilt, and that makes some of the scraps easier to bear.

Beneath Maud's obsession with her friend's disappearance, a story of long ago unfolds.

Maud herself if the narrator and I just wanted to hug her in between my howls of laughter. The language is wonderful and inventive. The descriptions of what's going through Maud's mind are a window into the reality of someone losing their memory, and they are bang on target. For example, on page 4 '... there's an animal, an animal for wearing outside, lying over the arm of the settee. It's Carla's. She never hangs it up, worried she'll forget it, I expect.' Maud's descriptions get better and better: page 238 ' ... but soon I see it is one of those things to move about on: two wheels, handlebars. Not a wheelbarrow.'

If you want to read a book that will take you by surprise, read this one.

30 September 2016
About that mouse
I was sitting watching TV this evening, totally caught up in the tribute to Terry Wogan, feeling maudlin at his loss and yet laughing because what else could I do, at the antics and wit he had delighted us with for so very long. Towards the end of the programme, my eye was caught by a movement at the side of the open doorway into the hall. There was that mouse, grinning at me with his teeth on view, like a mini furry Terry. I turned back to the television. Oh give me the real Terry, any day, everyday. I wouldn't have to run from him, or make sure that I was wearing mouse-proof shoes. I shall be terrified tonight, certain that every light movement of the duvet is the blasted mouse creeping up on me.