Suzy Henderson

What a month! Moving house near to Christmas is not a good idea -well, that's subjective of course but I'll never do it again. Only just managed to get ready for Christmas, although I still feel quite certain that I've forgotten something. Well, actually I still need to pop by my neighbours house and drop in a card. I received one from them yesterday with a lovely, warm welcome. Isn't it great to have nice, friendly people living near you? Out here it's rural although we're not far from the main town but everyone seems very friendly and pleasant so far - a great community. In fact, it's not just at home where I've had the pleasure of meeting new people. The extraordinary world of social media has well and truly opened up to me in this past year, giving me the opportunity to make new acquaintances from all around the globe. I have some fabulous new friends, and ones who have gone out of their way to make me feel welcome, as well as helping me in variou

Writing is strange, natural, wonderful, amazing, tense, and so on. It's multiple things but I never thought of it as a race -until this morning. I picked up a copy of a magazine and as I flicked through the pages I came across a new book which is due for release soon. It's a historical account of a story I discovered a couple of years ago whilst doing the research for my present novel. I kept the notes in my file and decided that could be my next project. Clearly I'm too late. I suppose the moral of the story is you can't afford to let the grass grow! So, one of my stories from World War Two concerns the pilot and crew of a B-17 Flying Fortress. Charlie Brown was a Pilot stationed at RAF Kimbolton, England, assigned to the 379th Bomb Group. The date was the 20th December 1943. The mission was Bremen, Germany and the target was an aircraft factory. After reaching the target and dropping the bombs, Brown's B-17 was attacked by eight German planes as well as sust

The Making of Heart Strings, The Making of Me. 'Heart Strings' is a collection of stories, mainly written since I moved from Wales to Ireland, four years ago.  I wrote 'Return to the Country' a few months after the move, as a response to my new location.  I suddenly found myself in an ancient cottage, on the edge of a country estate.  For a while there, it felt like my only friends (besides my husband) were the pheasants that drifted in. One particular pheasant became a regular visitor and I began feeding him.  I even gave him a name.  Meanwhile, I noticed that although my husband was originally from the area, he too was struggling to adjust.  Conversations with old friends were often stilted and uncertain.  Everything had changed. That's when the idea came to me.  I would write a story from the perspective of someone who had grown up in a rural area, moved to London, lived the life of a professional and now found themselves, back on home turf, but stran

Well, having been absent for a short while, all thanks to moving home, I'm glad to say that things are gradually returning to normal. As for moving, never again! And I recall saying that four and a half years ago when my family and I first moved to the delights of rural West Cumbria. Nestled within the Vale of Lorton, surrounded by the West Cumbrian mountains, I finally felt that I was home. Sadly our Cumbrian cottage was only a temporary home and as such it was inevitable that one day we would have to move on. That day came last Tuesday. Moving is so stressful. If you work from home as I do, there is the added pressure of ensuring that your work is properly packed, labelled and easily identified once you reach the new home. Well, you can imagine that even with the best intentions this is not always possible. Top tip -do not take your eyes off the removal men for a second. They work like streaks of lightening, packing items into boxes randomly at top speed. It has taken me five