Page 27 of Slow Burn Summer

Longhand or typed?

Both. PC mostly for getting the words down, but I sometimes switch to longhand if I need to chew over a few different scenarios—more satisfying to cross out than delete. I have a 1952 Hermes Baby typewriter, a beloved gift that’s far too beautiful to use. Plus a mechanical keyboard for an alternative sound—writing is a long, old job, it can feel monotonous. Having options to switch things up is useful when you’re flagging. That’s where the licorice comes into play too. Can’t say I’ve ever eaten a Jelly Tot, possibly because I don’t have children to buy them for, so feel unqualified to comment.

Have I ever broken any bones? (Have you?)

I broke a bone in my back twenty years ago, came off a bike. A tandem, ridiculously, the one and only time I’ll ever get on such a contraption. While on deadline, of course. Someone gifted me some bizarre telescopic glasses to use the laptop while lying flat, which worked at a push but caused so much hilarity they proved more of a hindrance than a help.

Favorite holiday destination?

Some of my most carefree days have been spent on Formentera, an island off the coast of Ibiza. A place so beautiful it hurts your eyes, as if a rogue tornado scurried a tiny Caribbean jewel across the world and deposited it in the Med. Don’t mention it publicly—it’s one of those places people in the know don’t talk about in case everyone discovers it.

India was fascinating, L.A. all-consuming, New Zealand breath-taking. Those aside, put me in a remote cabin on a Welsh hillside, sea view non-negotiable. Perhaps that’s the key. I need to be near the coast.

Where makes your list?

Best,

H

Hi H,

Am replying from my sparkly new official Kate Darrowby email—Clive has been jettisoned at last! (Have given myself an awful image of him being unceremoniously fired from a cannon. Rest assured, no tortoises were harmed in the creation of this email account.)

A tandem? I can’t think of another human I’d trust enough to get on one of those with. Whoever invented them should be fired from that cannon instead of poor old Clive!

I’ve never broken any bones at all. I do have a crooked little finger, though. Liv slammed her foot into it sliding down the banisters at our grandmother’s house. I was at the bottom with my hand on the rail and she smacked straight into me then fell off and twisted her ankle. We conducted the entire grisly scene in strangled silence, because we had the kind of grandmother who really detested having children in her house.

I’ve looked Formentera up and I’m officially OBSESSED. I’ll keep the secret, but it’s gone straight to the top of my bucket list.

Where makes my list?

I’m really not well traveled—I’m ashamed to say I’ve barely ventured outside Europe. Florence made my heart sing, Sardinia too. I find myself drawn to Italy for the pasta, pizza, and passion!

I love Cornwall best of all, though. If I ever have enough money, I’ll buy a tiny shuttered house overlooking a harbor and spend every morning drinking good coffee and watching the boats come in. They’ll be so used to me they’ll look up at my open windows and I’ll shout down to see what they’ve caught, and they’ll save me the best for my dinner. Community, I guess. Belonging. I lived a long time in a place where it was severely lacking, despite the regular dinner parties and garden gatherings.

Do you get nervous before a book comes out?

Because I feel as sick as a parrot about this one and I didn’t even write it! I guess some of my nerves stem from the possibility that people might realize they’re not my words, but mostly I just want people to love the story as much as I do. It really matters to me.

Do you have any publication-week rituals or tips?

What do you like to do when you’re not writing? As in, what lights you up, besides books?

This is a random one, but someone asked for my favorite smells. Anything come to mind?

Until next time,

Kate x

15

“H hasn’t replied, it’s beenalmost a week,” Kate said, biting the edge of her nail. They’d decamped up to her flat for a cold glass of wine after a long, sticky day in the shop.

“Stop doing that, you’ll make it bleed,” Liv said. “Your hands need to be perfect for all the pics I’m going to take of you holding the book in various bookshops and supermarkets.”

“You don’t need to come with me to shelf-spot, it’s fine.” Kate had seen enough authors posting shelfies to know the publication-day drill.

Liv ripped the bag of licorice open on the coffee table. “I do. Would I let you go to prenatal classes alone if you were pregnant? No. No, I would not.” She picked up a piece of licorice and sniffed it, then placed it down again, unimpressed. “You’re about to give birth to this book, and I’m gonna be there to wipe your sweaty brow and take proud-sister pics of you cradling it in your unbitten hands.”

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