First up in our series of interviews with the Thorstruck family is Poppet. Many of you already know her work (we have posted a fair few reviews of Poppet's work here!) and others simply must discover this talented writer's imagination. Poppet has interviewed on Writing World before, but time has passed and we love to hear about what is new :)
Poppet is published and signed to four publishers, has over
50 novels to her credit including self published non fiction, and writes in
many genres. She started her career writing for magazines and now specializes
in edgy fiction of the paranormal and ghoulish. Poppet previously worked in a
high profile advertising agency, taking the experience with her into her
writing career when she turned her talents to book cover design and writing for
magazines.
She's an Authonomy gold star holder (from Harper Collins UK), wrote as a health
writer for six years (the inspiration for her recipe book), being published in
consecutive issues for years in two magazines, spending a few years also doing
freelance SEO writing for webdesign companies, loves to cook, grow her own
food, and read. Poppet is proficient in Photoshop, having designed covers for
herself and author friends, recently for the Irish publisher Tirgearr
Publishing, and for Thorstruck Press.
She specalises in mythology inspired fiction, leaning toward the heretical,
blaming her lineage for her preoccupation with the realms of gods and fallen
angels. Poppet is published with Eibonvale Press, Wild Wolf Publishing,
Vamptasy Publishing, Thorstruck Press, and previously published with Night
Publishing (which closed doors), and Endaxi Press.
Telling ghost stories to my friends and cousins – age 9. I
knew then I had a gift for scaring the crap out of people afraid of the dark.
- We like having the crap scared out of us! Which
genre are you most comfortable writing in?
Paranormal – I like it when normal boundaries are malleable
- Would
you say you draw most often from your own knowledge base when writing or
do you research for fresh material?
I research
- Tell us
a bit about your work. How, for instance, do you choose your titles?
They just happen.
- Lucky you! Most of us sigh over titles :) We love
to read excerpts. Share with us your favourite bit of writing from your
latest book.
From my novel Lucem – a continuation of Seithe
– due out soon.
I need my diary, I need to write
this all down before I lose my moment of corny genius.
Movement swims through the haze of
mirth-tears and I clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle the hysterical giggles.
I laugh when I'm nervous, maybe this is just stress relief.
“Once the door in your mind is left
ajar you open it wider. Glad you find ancient history so hilarious. So Jamie,
are you stupid?”
His bitchy tone shocks the joy
right out of me and I wipe my eyes, hating him for ruining a moment of silly
relief.
“What part of follow me did
you not understand? Instead you grope the wall like a randy rapist. Trust, it's
your default nature, yet instead of following the path I took from this room
you doubted the wisdom and went looking for a logical manmade exit. Follow me,
Jamie. Literally follow me. It's not a parable.”
And the obnoxious man-candy goes
strutting back into nowhere from the middle of the room. Are all angels this
grumpy? Bloody hell! So much for benevolent beings of happy heaven light sent
to change the world in a ray of bliss.
If I was less of a lady I'd call
him something really rude, but I never did like the taste of soap. And which
sadist invented that punishment?
Getting annoyed I stand, stomping
to the point he vanished, finding myself in a passage, like some kind of black
hole portal.
Looking left, then right, I go
storming to my right, rounding a corner to see him striding purposefully toward
me, except now his eyes are molten silver.
“You're a real bastard, you know
that?” I snap at him, ready for a decent clash of wills.
He stops walking to raise both
eyebrows at me, glowering, “And who are you? Where's Seithe?”
Blinking rapidly, I don't
understand what just happened. Hang on, this guy is dressed differently. Black
leather jeans? Really?
“Rock star in training?” I goad.
“Stone age I presume?” He won't get the humour, not knowing about how I've been
thinking about Vikings and Barbarians. If it is Seithe I don't appreciate him
trying to disorientate me again.
He props hands on hips, all muscle
and height, giving me a skew smile, “Who the fuck are you? Where is Seithe?”
“I don't know, we're playing hide
and seek. Who are you?” I say, playing along.
Instantly his smile widens and his
eyes become so brilliant they seem like hot mercury, “I'm the angel you've been
waiting for.” He strides right up to me so I'm nose to sternum with him, when
the wanker leans down to whisper in my ear, “When was the last time you were
fingered by an angel?”
“Jowendrhan, leave her alone!”
shouts from behind me, and I snap around guiltily, looking from one to the
other.
“There are two of you?”
The guy with the leather pants
looks up, glaring at his twin image, “Seithe, you definitely have a type. Blue
eyes, sun-streaked long brown hair, shorter than a pixie, no wonder you don't
give a fuck about your ex.” He pats my head, leaving his hand on my crown as if
I'm just a dog rescued from the pound, “So what's this one's name?”
“Jamie. Jamie, meet my brother Jo.”
I shrug his hand off me, still
amazed. Seithe's eyes are back to vodka, his hair as white as his brother's now
is. “Do all angels do that? You have this mega identity crisis don't you? Brown
hair or white? Anaemic eyes or brown? Do you morph between short and tall too?
Fat and thin?”
The brother Jo...something looks at
me, his smile the kind that melts nylon underwear, “I know a great way to shut
up snarky women, it's thick and long and full of god juice.”
“You're not touching her!” shouts,
and before I know what the hell is going on I have doppelgangers punching each
other across the wide sandstone passage, bitching and arguing in booms of
Phoebe and babies, and angels and Venix, and Darise, and god knows what.
Well Seithe's brother at least
seems to be more fun. Seithe's a little highly strung.
They finally stop, while I prudently
stand far away from their scuffle, when Seithe (I can tell because he's wearing
blue jeans), says to his assailant, “How did you find me?”
“I may be pretty, but I'm not
stupid Seithe. I might be your baby brother but I've come a long way since you
died. I'm not the kid you need to rescue any longer, and I'm here to crack your
skull open. I'm taking it to Phoebe so she can drink wine out of it every full
moon.”
- LOVE it! We can't wait to read it all! Who do
you identify with most in your work? And why?
The sarky chic with a chip on her shoulder
- If you
could choose who would play Ellindt in the movie or series made from your
work, who would it be?
Hayden Panetierre
- Which
four words would you use to describe yourself?
Unhinged, workaholic, defiant, fact-junkie
- Which
four words would you use to describe your work?
Sexy, heretical, paranormal, adrenaline-rush
- I have
to throw this in! That list of favourites we’re all interested in!
Favourite book: Spirit Walk – Charles de Lint
Favourite movie: Strange Days
Favourite TV series: X Files
Favourite colour: Pink
Favourite food: Pizza / ice-cream
Favourite drink: coffee
Favourite pet: My kitty
Favourite season: Summer
Favourite place: Bed
- Often
personal fame and prominence for your work go together, but frequently
authors prefer remaining in the background while hoping their work will
assume the limelight. Is this true for you, or don’t you mind a bit of
fame?
I like being unknown as far as my face goes, I don't want to
be recognised, I like my anonymity. I don't dress up, wear old jeans and older
shirts, my hair is usually scraped back in a pony-tail and I loathe make-up –
staying incognito means I never have to make an effort and be judged for being
so damn ordinary
- You'll never be ordinary, but writers understand the feeling! Tell us
about your next book (we love to know what to look forward to!).
I'm working on a Seithe series, a paranormal teen novel, and
2 horrors. It's hard to pick just one, but here's a snippet from my teen
novel...
I was not sorry they died. I
probably should have been, but I wasn't. Being an orphan is a far sight better
than having two working parents in a 'happy' marriage.
Mom was a Dreamer. As such she
spent more time in the ether than tending to basic requirements, like worrying
about my next meal. I was lucky to get bread gone green with mould and curdled
yoghurt for dinner. My hair was matted and I was beyond neglect.
One day mom just disintegrated,
coming apart to join the realm of her habitual dousing. Dad, who was a chef
(ironic, I know) came home once a week to say his hello's and for his conjugal
copulation, and found me in a state of disarray, my clothing of such a stench
that he couldn't bring himself to hug me when he discovered I was abandoned.
He went after mom, to retrieve her
from the Realm, and that was the last time I saw either of them. They are gone,
lost in the nebulae of spirit.
I have no desire to join a Cookery
as I do not share my father's passion for yelling at inept souz chefs, waiters,
and cooks. He may have been famous for his Saffron Soufflé, for his genius and
foul temper, but the orphanage gave me gruel (which was billions times yummier
than my mother's attempts at providing dinner).
It's a cruel twist of fate that I
should have been the spawn of a cookery prodigy only to never taste the
delicacies which made him renown. I am the infamous child of a duo who were so
far apart on the talent spectrum that I do not even fall into the shades of
infrared.
My father was solidly of this world
yet my mother did everything in her power to escape it. Life was not her forte,
absenteeism was.
Left in the care of a state orphanage
I was happier than I've ever been. I learned the basics, I was clean, fed, with
a bed which was made to exact specifications each morning.
Unlike the world in the legends,
this planet no longer has helpless infants. We are born intelligent, able to read,
work numbers, capable and strong from birth. The legends claim infants were
weak and helpless, that was a long time ago, we have genetically evolved. No
longer does visual entertainment take precedence, instead we are born with a
full vocabulary, able to read our own bedtime stories, able to work from the
time we are two, but still tradition forces us into the annals of education so
that we may master our instincts and hone our aptitude.
As such, Le'Maison Lucemlot is a
benefactor of charity. Once a year he comes to the Noxperiarat Orphanage to
offer scholarship to one lucky child. Doing his bit to avoid taxes, to appear
altruistic, and perhaps he is, but the manner in which the child is chosen is
left to chance.
We drew lots on the winter
solstice. So I drew my straw from the box in his bony hand, and it was my fate
to be the next one taken away from a place of sanctuary. The place I chose to
call home. Away from Matron Gleam and her ample bosom and life affirming hugs,
her gentle smile and kind eyes.
I left in the depth of the darkest
sleet to take the sky carriage to Castle Creepy. We call it Castle Creepy, but
my destination is officially known as Burroughwood Posterity Boarding School.
Bleeding Hogs hauled the rickety carriage through the eerie midnight, the dawn
of my future in a void so dreary it was naught but bleak.
Castle Efferhue loomed large in the
Gowling District, darker than the shadows slinking through the winter brume. It
glowed on the left, from the banks of Wishlake sending witchmist up as if it
could steam in the cold. Steam is hot, Wishlake is so cold and gloomy it fills
hearts with despair.
I know, I row on it now. I've been
an attendee of Burroughwood Posterity Boarding School for thirteen years. My
aptitude extends to rowing it seems, but I would beg to differ as I'm not as
tall as Gray, nor as strong, and am disparaged by the elite boy's crew as I'm B
team, not A.
Standing here staring at the rising
mist, recalling the day I came to live inside walls three meters thick with
windows liken to a goalery for criminals, I stare at the lake of my discontent
from the safety of my four poster bed in the upper west dorm.
I fear Wishlake. It glows livid
silver all year, it's bitter and desperate. The next regatta is on Fernobrook.
Fernobrook is a raging expanse known for its incinerating waves. The trick to
rowing is to row in such a way that the blade never makes a splash, not
entering the liquid, nor on exit. It's a run, when the longboat skims the top
with such speed that it nary touches the surface, our blades dipping in and out
like pistons firing through the cosmos. If we do not row like saints on
Fernobrook we'll leave the regatta disfigured, the burn marks permanent, the
lavagloam singeing our skin off. We can't afford to make a splash, not this
time.
Soon it will be Hearken Break, when
all those privileged scholars go home to their real families. I don't have one
so am left here with just one other for companionship. Arlene, the school's
resident slut. She and I are the only two orphans still residing here. I was
the last one chosen by Le'Maison Lucemlot, after me he changed his policy,
adopting Coldjik women from the glacier borderlands, bringing them in to be
chambermaids in our macabre halls.
They're gorgeous, every last one of
them, and it's a rite of passage to lose one's virginity to the Coldjik maids.
I've caught Le'Maison glowering at many a pert bottom bent in the act of
polishing, serving and scrubbing, to wonder exactly what his goal was in
adopting the modern version of Russian mail order brides.
Black eyes lined with fierce
wrinkles skewer us at every meal, at every assembly, at every regatta. Lord
Lucemlot is regal, intimidating, and my warden. This year I finally join his
class of ectonomics. I've heard he is a hard taskmaster and impossible to
please.
My day is coming. I have to prove
myself this year or risk losing my second home. This year I will beat Gray when
it comes to selections. I will train harder than I ever have, quash my fears of
the ethereal lakes and their dangers, and hopefully this Hearken Break I'll
lose my virginity too. Either to Ivana (the maid who cleans my quarters), or to
Arlene. She's done everyone else, I don't see why she won't do me too.
- Ooooo, another winner! What
comes next, besides a new book project? A holiday, an event?
Nothing comes next, my life consists of editing, book cover
design, and writing. I do it because it makes me happy. Being an author means I
haven't been able to afford to have a holiday in over a decade – besides
visiting my mother twice after her hubby died, the last real holiday I've had
in 20 years was a 2 week stay at my hubby's grandmother's for my honeymoon.
There are no plans to be made when you live never knowing what you'll earn this
month, if anything. People assume authors are well off and rolling in it, I'm
here to tell them being an author is a 24 hour job, working non stop, editing
until your sight blurs, and it won't make you rich or famous, it truly is a
labour of compulsion and love.
- And
finally, if you could choose one person, living or dead, you would like to
meet, who would it be and what would you ask of that person?
I'd like to meet Immanuel (aka Jesus) and tell him to put
Paul (Saul) to death before he can infiltrate his message and core group -
which made it a religion which serves fear instead of love. I'd also tell him
to leave a lot of evidence of his existence, because as things stand right now
he's a myth without a shred of proof to his existence. I'd tell him to write
his own damn gospels instead of having everything delivered second hand.
(Read more about Immanuel and Paul in The Nephilim Cartel)
Thank you for spending time with Writing World, Poppet. It's always a pleasure having you here!
