It’s sizzling hot today here in campbellsworld what with all these great Tell-It-To-The-World Marketing folks dropping by, and here just before lunchtime on WordPress Wednesday we have none other than author blogger Jane Risdon with us to share a link that has tripped her trigger, and got her bells ringing. In fact, here she is to tell you why she enjoyed the post so.
But. Wait. There’s more.
If you check out what’s beneath her note and shared link, you’re going to learn all about some of her most FAB work. So, don’t scroll by without having a look.
Thanks for dropping by and make sure to come back in the afternoon because newly published author Joan Myles is coming by with one of her magnificent offerings, and then, if that’s not hot enough to melt your socks right off we’ve got a surprise guest appearing after.
Did I not tell you it was sizzling hot?
OK. Without any more delay, here’s Jane.
Hello campbellsworld, Jane here with a great book review for you to read on this summery afternoon.
Every Tuesday at Marcia Meara’s – The Write Stuff, she invites us to share one of our books and a review – #ShareAReviewDay. Visit Marcia’s blog and join in on her generous offer.
such an interesting read and fab collection of authors too. Q&A always rings my bell and so do read on…
https://dgkayewriter.com/shareareviewday-tuesday-understanding-anthology-true-significant-life-events-compiled-stevie-turner-shared-d-g-kaye-write-stuff/May 25, 2019
MORE ABOUT JANE AND HER WORK…
Jane Risdon – biography
Jane Risdon has spent most of her life working in the International Music Business rubbing shoulders with the powerful and famous, especially in Hollywood.
Married to a musician, and later working alongside him managing singers, musicians, songwriters, and record producers, she’s also facilitated the placement of music on successful television series and movie soundtracks.
Her experiences have provided her with a unique insight into the business and her writing often has a music related theme. She has written for 15 anthologies, various online magazines and newsletters and has written over 50 short stories and is writing 4 novels at present.
She is signed to Accent Press Ltd.
With long-term friend, award-winning, best-selling author, Christina Jones – one time fan-club secretary for Jane’s husband’s band – Jane has co-authored Only One Woman – Accent Press – which is set in the UK music scene of 1968/69.
The foreword for their novel was written for them by iconic rock singer, Graham Bonnet who had a hit single with Only One Woman written for him as part of The Marbles, by the Bee Gees. Graham went on to front legendary rock bands such Rainbow, Alcatraz, MSG and Blackmore to name a few.
Recently Jane published the first in a collection of her short crime stories – Undercover: Crime Shorts (Plaisted Publishing House) and she hopes to publish another collection later in the year.
Jane is working on the sequel to Only One Woman as well as a series of crime novels including Ms Birdsong Investigates – featuring former MI5 Officer Lavinia Birdsong – which she plans to complete in 2019. Her experience of working at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in her pre-music days has given her plenty of material for her crime/thrillers.
Buy Links for Undercover: Crime Shorts
Only One Woman buy links: (available most countries and on most digital platforms)
Paperback and eBook:
Waterstones Branches: ISBN 9781783757312
Simon & Schuster USA/North America: ISBN 9781682994252
Only One Woman Facebook:
Undercover: Crime Shorts
Under one cover for the first time a collection of crime shorts from Jane Risdon with more twists and turns than Spaghetti Junction – a must for those who enjoy gripping yarns.
Undercover: Crime Shorts features new short stories written with strong female protagonists at its heart and includes Sweet Sable – a redheaded nightclub singer with sex appeal and a sting in her tail, and The Look – a hit woman with an agenda for revenge and a talent for hire.
There is an extract form the first novel in the series Ms Birdsong Investigates Murder in Ampney Parva: Operation Matryoshka – where former MI5 intelligence officer, Lavinia Birdsong, is asked to look for a missing woman and finds herself embroiled in murder, the Russian Mafia, and Ukrainian gun-runners.
Some of my fab reader’s 5* reviews/comments:
Roger A Price: former detective and crime author says: Crime Shorts is a wonderfully satisfying anthology of seven short stories which transcend above the crime fiction genre providing a ripping yarn irrespective of the reader’s crime fiction preference. Jane Risdon has cleverly stitched together a mix of tales to suit all fans of the genre.
Gloria Clulow: reader says: As with all Jane’s stories I find them intriguing and unpredictable, leaving me wanting more; I don’t want them to end.
Professor Margot Kinberg: Associate professor and author of the Joel Williams crime novels says: Undercover, what a gripping story, so well written. You’ve packed so much ‘punch’ into it, loved it. I really felt the rising tension and suspicion! You’ve captured the suspense of it beautifully and it is such a great set-up with good characters.
Charlie Plunkett: reader says:
Fast-paced, well written, page-turner that had me so engrossed my train journey flew by. The author clearly has done a lot of research, these short stories all felt very authentic and each had me gripped and on the edge of my seat wondering how they would play out. It’s been a long time since I read anything quite so intriguing and twisty. It certainly got my heart beating faster and I’d highly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys a great murder, mystery.
Jane Risdon – my pleasure lovely, praise where it’s due, you have written a fabulous selection of short stories and I will definitely look out for Ms Birdsong.
Undercover – Crime Shorts; is a wonderfully satisfying anthology of seven short stories which transcend above the crime fiction genre providing a ripping yarn irrespective of the reader’s crime fiction preference. Jane Risdon has cleverly stitched together a mix of tales to suit all fans of the genre. Roger A. Price former detective and author of Nemesis and Vengeance.
Jane Risdon is an author of exceptional talent. When you get the opportunity to read her work you certainly should, she is an awesome talent. She gives a view in her writing which is both full of imagination and technique. An author who knows exactly how to convey her thoughts and ideas to her readers and her writing is of a calibre and quality only seen in the very best authors. Jeff Lee author of Chump Change, The Ladies Temperance Club’s Farewell Tour and Scrotus.
Tina Jaray, Reader. Wow, I could hardly breathe while I read this. Glad it was short or I would’ve joined the corpse!
Murder by Christmas: Murder by Christmas is a brilliant read. The author displays excellent skills as she tells the story from several perspectives, all of which help keep the twists and turns a surprise. Thoroughly recommended. Roger A. Price former detective and author of Nemesis and Vengeance
Murder by Christmas: What a fantastic story. I was glued to the screen and stopped work which means another late night (thanks). Dave Michael Prosser, Author of the Barsetshire Diaries and more.
The Honey Trap: Great Story. You completely blind-sided me with your twist at the end. I didn’t see that one coming. Loved it. Jane is an awesome writer and an author of exceptional talent. Jeff Lee author of Chump Change, The Ladies Temperance Club’s Farewell Tour and Scrotus.
Undercover: Wow, Jane, this is one of the best stories I’ve ever read! It doesn’t matter that it’s so short, I was right there with her and this blew me away. You are such a good writer! Stacy Margaret Allan, Author of Sorrow Dreams.
Extract from Undercover: Crime shorts
SWEET SABLE – The Red Siren
Closing the safe door quietly and with an expert spin of the dial the black-clad woman straightened up, slinging the grip with her haul over her shoulder. She stood listening intently before moving towards the office door. Again she waited, her ears straining, before gently prising the door open and stepping silently into the corridor of darkened offices. She eased the door closed calculating she had barely two minutes before the night-watchman made his rounds, trying the doors and checking the building was secure. The woman headed for the fire escape where she’d made her entrance to the three storey building some ten minutes earlier. Gently raising the window she climbed out on to the metal staircase with the athletic grace of a ballet dancer, giving the dark alley below a quick once-over to ensure no-one was around she hastily made her way down the rusting stairs. Her tar- toned unremarkable and unmemorable automobile was parked across the street, hidden in the gloom of another narrow alleyway. Glancing at her wrist-watch – an expensive pay-off from a married lover – she knew she’d better step on the gas. She’d less than fifteen minutes to get back to the night-club, park her car at the darkest end of the outside lot, and leg it back to her dressing-room with enough time to change into her gown for her last set of the evening. The red-head chuckled to herself as she repaired her lipstick pouting seductively at herself in the mirror, waiting for the stagehand to knock on her door with her final call. She was buzzing. She’d done it again, she’d pulled it off. It was better than any sex she’d ever had and that was saying something. She chuckled, puckered her ample lips and blew herself a huge wet kiss.
As the spotlight found its mark the band-leader nodded to the scarlet-clad shapely figure who took up position in front of the microphone. Her hips swayed in time to the jazz trumpet and she took her cue. Her sultry sable-clad tones sucked her audience into her lair. The figures outlined in the flickering candle-light adorning circular tables dotted around the smoke-hazed, expectant venue, stopped talking and turned their heads towards the elevated stage where Desi Garcia’s Syncopators went into full swing behind Sweet Sable – also known as the Red Siren – neither was her real name but no-one cared. When her song ended there was a moment’s silence before they pounded their tables shouting, ‘more, more.’ Sweet Sable wiggled her slender but shapely hips, leaned over the stage giving more than an eye-full of her full bosom on display in her tight-fitting, strapless gown and blew huge smackers into the air, aimed at no-one in particular but the full-blooded men in the audience got the message and so did their partners who silently seethed. Her set over for the evening Sweet Sable made her way back to her dressing room, accepting compliments and congratulations on her ‘wonderful performance,’ smiling, blowing kisses and with a toss of her luxurious red mane, closed her dressing room door to keep the stage door Johnnies out. There was always a small stud congregated outside her door and gathered around the stage door following her shows. Sometimes she allowed a particularly handsome or obviously loaded guy inside who was good for a dinner or two – or for something else – if rich enough. They were ripe for the picking; such patsies. This particular evening Sweet Sable was anxious not to have any company. She had plans and getting pawed by a fawning, slobbering man who felt ‘entitled’ after giving her dinner, was not part of them. She had to get her haul to a safe place so she could take a proper look at it before deciding what she had to do. Sweet Sable loved having options – and she had plenty.
Only One Woman – blurb:
Follow the lives of Renza, Stella, and Scott as they navigate the late 1960s – the social upheaval, huge world events and the blossoming UK Music Scene.
Renza, 16, and a slave to her family meets the sex-on-legs guitarist with Narnia’s Children, Scott, weeks before she and her family move overseas to join her father in his new job. They fall in love and as they part, vow to marry one day when his band are massive and she can escape her family.
Enter Stella, 19, sassy, street-wise, and already a budding rock journalist and short story author. Stella is seriously ill and awaits an operation she thinks she will die during. Her best friend Vix, trying to give her a last night to remember before she dies, takes her to see a Narnia’s Children’s gig. Scott and Stella lock eyes and Stella falls in love. Scott, lonely and miserable falls for Stella, though he does come clean about Renza. Stella doesn’t care, she’ll take what she can get, if only for the shortest time. Stella is soon employed as Fan-club secretary to Narnia’s Children, ensuring Scott and Stella are thrust together more and more often as Renza, pining away in a small German village, is non-the wiser that she has a rival.
Set against the background of the music and fashions of 1968/69, the vibe of the grooviest decade of the 20th century, Only One Woman takes you on a nostalgic ride back to the days of free-love and the Cold War. A love triangle which keeps you guessing right up until the last sentence. Who will he choose? For Scott there can be Only One Woman.
Only One Woman – reviews:
Amazon 56 5* reviews
GoodReads 33 5* reviews
And many more online in magazines and blogs.
See the Only One Woman Facebook Page for details:
Only One Woman – extract:
Renza and Stella keep diaries and Only One Woman is written from using both their diary entries and from both points of view…
May 24th 1968 – late
What a flipping nightmare of an evening. I really thought I’d never get home in one piece. Everything that could go wrong, went wrong. Someone up there hates me I’m sure.
If only Selina hadn’t lost her handbag at the Top Rank, I’d have caught the last bus back from Reading and I would’ve been home on time. Instead I’d gone back with the others to look for it – thankfully it had been handed in at the cloakroom and nothing was missing. Luckily I had just enough money for the train, which I’d had to run for. Selina’s dad took the others home in his brand new car as arranged, and there wasn’t room for me as well. I reckon he could’ve taken me but Yvette refused to let me sit on her lap in the front, in case I ripped her Mary Quant stockings. Sometimes I really want to do her a mischief.
They’ve got to do something about our local station, it’s just too creepy for words. Steam from the train almost suffocated me as I crossed the bridge to the exit on the opposite platform; all very ‘Brief Encounter’ I remember thinking, in an effort to stop my mind wandering off into ‘Hitchcock-land.’ Talk about cough myself silly, and my eyes stung something rotten as I tried to find my way in the pitch black; the two over-head lamps didn’t help much,
they should do something about those flipping lights, I could’ve broken my neck, or even worse, tripped over in my new pink kitten heels and broken one of them.
I slowly took the steps down to the lane beside the station, glancing around me all the while – I admit it, I was a little freaked out. It’s always deserted, and you can never be too careful. Not long ago a dangerous prisoner escaped from the nearby asylum and hid in the waiting room for days before being recaptured. Hardly anyone uses the station since the cut-backs by that old idiot, Beeching, and the trains are a bit hit and miss since they messed with the timetable, so the convict was able to wait for his twisted ankle to mend without much danger of discovery. For all I knew, another Jack the Ripper could’ve be lurking in there waiting for me to pass, that’d just be my flaming luck.
I was in so much trouble. Forty minutes later than agreed. She’d never believe me about the bag, but no other excuse came to mind as I walked down the lane. I was going to be so dead.
I had such a fright. Something or someone, made a noise behind me, so I stopped and listened, but I really felt like running. Some sort of night creature, silly girl, I decided as I walked on. But there it was again. Was someone behind me?
I turned and peered into the pitch dark – I’m still shaking as I write this. I told myself it sounded like a hedgehog – had to be. Don’t panic, no-one comes down here at night I reminded myself. Oh cripes, that lane, I hate it. Anyone could jump out to get you, seriously, I’ve often wondered, who’d hear you yell? No-one that’s who. There aren’t any lights or houses down there.
I must remember – next time the girls ask me to the Top Rank – to leave early and get the bus on time. Next time, who am I kidding?
I’m going nuts – I hope no-one ever reads this, I’d die, but I started singing quietly to myself – I do that sometimes when I’m feeling a bit nervous – well seriously spooked actually. I turned on to the main road relieved no-one had grabbed me, and headed for our house. That’s when I heard him…
‘What time do you think this is?’
Well, I nearly died of fright. I actually jumped. I couldn’t work out where the voice was coming from. It seemed to echo all around me in the dimly lit street. Someone had followed me, that’s what I kept thinking. I hurried past the bus stop when I heard him again. What to do? Should I run? If I screamed, bringing Mum and half the village outside, Mrs Digby would just love that and if I got murdered, well, it didn’t bear thinking about. All this went through my brain at a rate of knots as I tried to work out where the voice was coming from. Would I make it to the gate?
Bloody Selina and her stupid bag. I was going to die all because of her stupid bag.
‘You’re out very late.’
I froze. I was partly relieved it wasn’t Mum or Mrs Digby’s voice. It was definitely a man’s. Who the hell was it? I was considering running but I didn’t want to break another heel, not after the last time. The Cobbler said he couldn’t repair it, if it snapped again. Besides, the bloke didn’t sound like a cold blooded murderer, well, not really. I mean, what sort of killer asks you what time do you call this, before bumping you off?
The voice sounded even nearer and something made me look up towards the row of shops not far from our house. A window was open in the flat above the hairdresser’s, Shirley’s, and I could just make out a head and shoulders poking through. Someone with long dark hair; definitely a bloke.
Thank god, at least I hadn’t been followed by a crazed axe murderer after-all.
‘Mind your own business. What’s it got to do with you when I come home?’ I stopped walking and stood looking up at him. I couldn’t make out his features in the dark, and being short-sighted, even full daylight wouldn’t have made that much difference anyway.
‘You’re lucky you don’t have school tomorrow, coming back this late.’
Flaming nerve! He sounded like my Dad. Who the hell was he, I wondered. Too young to be one of Mum’s spies surely.
‘Drop dead!’ I turned and flounced off towards our gate, trying hard not to go over on my ankle on the uneven pavement. I had a bad case of the shakes thanks to him.
‘I’ll be watching you. Make sure you get your beauty sleep,’ he shouted just as I closed the gate, anxiously glancing at the house in case Mum or Mrs Digby next door had heard someone shouting at me in the street.
I’d never be allowed to forget it if Mum thought Mrs Digby had heard me making a spectacle of myself in public. Even getting murdered would’ve been my fault, causing her embarrassment in front of the whole village. Perish the thought – a public spectacle, no matter it wasn’t instigated by me. Fingers crossed most people were in bed by now anyway.
Just as I got to the front door it was yanked open by Mum and she stood aside in the hall to let me pass. Dread flooded over me. She’d heard me shouting. I was dead!
She was about to start on me when thankfully one of the kids woke up, having a nightmare or something, yelling and thrashing about in the room they all shared. With a withering look at me, she stomped upstairs to see whoever it was.
I heard something about ‘chocks away,’ followed by a huge thud. Then Mum yelling, ‘You can’t go to the loo in there! It’s the wardrobe! Get out of there!’ followed by a lot of shuffling about.
That would be my ten-year-old brother Simon doing a parachute jump from the top bunk and then mistaking the wardrobe for the loo – it often happened after he’d been messing about with his Air-fix.
Blessing him and his night-games – for once – I used the commotion to sneak into my room and get ready for bed. Hopefully Mum wouldn’t come into my room, and if she did I would pretend to be asleep. I’d get away with it – but she would certainly start on me in the morning.
I sighed heavily and prepared myself for not being allowed to go anywhere ever again in this lifetime.
From Only One Woman: Christina Jones and Jane Risdon, Accent Press.