Not only is Val an extremely talented author, she is also a lovely person. I am delighted to welcome her to my blog this week.
And here is her bio.
The author’s pen name Voinks began many years ago. It started as a joke then gradually spread through the family, so it was an obvious choice when her first book was published.
Despite receiving her first rejection letter aged nine from some lovely people at a well-known Women’s magazine, she continued writing intermittently until a freak accident left her housebound and going stir crazy.
The completion and publication of her first full length novel helped to save her sanity during those difficult times, and saw the start of her new career. Now firmly hooked, a second traditionally published book gave her the confidence to self-publish her third. In between writing her longest novel to date at over 100,000 words, she publishes weekly stories for her Facebook author page and web site.
Although her novels tend towards modern fiction with a hint of Romance, her short stories cover various genres including her trademark twist of ‘Quirky.’ From having unfulfilled days, she is now actively seeking out a planet with longer hours, to have time to write all the stories waiting to be told.
She always appreciates reviews as they help spread the word, and sales bring in cash to pay for food for the Unicorns she breeds in her spare time.
And now for Val's short story
The End by Val Portelli
‘You should write a book,’ everyone told me, so I did.
The words flowed easily, and I dreamed of the royalties making me a millionaire and
becoming famous. It didn’t quite work like that.
My friends were neglected, the spiders took over the house, and many a time I let the bath overflow whilst writing down the perfect phrase or ending for a chapter. By the time I had written 100,000 words I’d attended five doctors’ appointments, met two psychiatrists and one psychologist, and been interviewed by the police four times because of the material found on my laptop. Don’t they know it’s called research?
‘When was the last time you had something to eat?’ my companion asked for the twentieth time, ‘and you need to change your clothes, they smell rank.’
Companion? Just another word for an interfering old busybody, who had started appearing at regular intervals after one of my little mishaps. Was it my fault the chip pan had caught fire while I was busy getting my main character out of a burning building?
They needed to get their priorities right; I had to have peace for my creativity. It became a game pretending to be out when someone called, but still they came, until eventually I told my minders I was moving out of the area. They crossed me off their lists, and I was left alone to finish my book.
A few weeks, or was it months later, I breathed a sigh of relief as I typed THE END.
I knew things had been neglected but was shocked at the state of the place. It was almost impossible to move as the floor was littered with accumulated debris. For a while I wandered through the rooms, concerned at how quickly they had fallen into disrepair while I was writing. The kitchen was a mess, and the few bits of mouldy food left in the cupboard showed signs of mice having enjoyed their feast.
A trip to the supermarket to replenish supplies would be a priority, as well as arranging for the delivery of more oil for the heaters I had used when the central heating packed up. The lights had also failed sometime around chapter eighty-five, so a call to the electricity people was on the cards. Luckily my supply of candles had lasted, but there were now only one or two left.
My book must have taken longer than I thought, but unbelievably the calendar clock showed six months had passed while I had been cut off from the world. I tried to check the date on my laptop but there was no connection. Battling my way to the front door, I pushed aside the heap of post piled on the mat, and managed to force it open to look out onto the street. Except there wasn’t a street. Devastation surrounded me, my house was the only one still standing, and the air was red and clogging.
An old newspaper blowing in the wind showed the headline ‘Nuclear attack imminent,’ and I sobbed as I realised my epic novel would never now be published.
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