Sunday, December 9, 2012

Someone Else Who Isn't Me: Interview with B. Lloyd

Hello Splinkervillains!  Today is December 9, the day the Japanese sobered up and said "Uh-oh!"  Whenever I think about those [politically correct phrase here]  I get so angry, I want to self-promote. 

"Tora" is Japaense for "Zombie!"

But, given that the world is going to end in twelve days, I don't see the point. Instead of going on and an about "I've Been Deader," a near perfect blend of horror and comedy, I've decided to interview someone else who isn't me.  And that someone else happens to be B. Lloyd!

Welcome Mr. Lloyd.  I assume it's Mister, but that's just me hoping your not married. Mr. B. is a well known writer of words and such. He's agreed to be interviewed here today for reasons that i can only guess at.
So, let's get to it.

Mr. B., after reading your latest book, I just have to ask: Have you read "I've Been Deader," and how much did you love it?

B: Click on this link:  "Musical Zombies" - we all loved it so much we made a musical out of it. Does that answer your question ? 

Me: Really?  Why wasn't I told about this before. I hope you were kind. How did you start your writing career?

B.:  I have always scribbled, doodled, scratched and penned from childhood upwards.

Me: Who are your books published with? 

B.: Grey Cells Press:, an imprint of

Me: How do you describe your writing style? 

B.: I don’t – my publisher refers to my flash fiction as ‘quirky imaginings’. I like quirky. I hope also atmospheric. And dry.


Me: Entice us, what future projects are you considering?

B.: There are several, apart from sequels to Greenwood involving Julia (I already have the third roughly outlined); Of Pockets & Puddings (complete, partially uploaded:, a ghost anthology, some steampunkish (or steampiffly) stories with a view to creating a series of novels, and other historical adventures/thrillers (Georgian or Victorian Gothic).

Excerpts from Of Soul Sincere, sequel to Greenwood Tree, and The Gondola Cat are uploaded on

Me: And now for the question that writers just can't say "no" to: Do you have a Website or Blog?

Me: Several of each: my personal blog for Greenwood and other writings:
I have another called AuthorsAnon, which I set up to help promote fellow authors : ; there is a Spotlight page which hosts a new book each month.

The other websites, blogs, connections are here :

Me: What do you find most rewarding about writing?

B: Invention,  creation, atmosphere.
The business of entertainment.

Me:  Listen.  You SAY you're a writer and I have no reason to doubt it.  But my readers are a mistrustful lot. Many of them are also cranky and hung over.  Can you give us a little taste of your magivc?

Excerpt :

Nightfall. Two muffled figures with full bags running across the nightscape, two flitting shadows across tarnished silver grassland, heading for home after a good night’s work. Little need to ask what that work may have been; they run with guilty speed, the moon that served them before now pointing them out in their escape. There is some doubt however at a certain point – should they have turned right, further back? A quick, whispered consultation, and they choose instead to go on across the land towards the clumps of trees huddled together in some form of copse. They enter unknown territory unwittingly, and roam around in circles, getting caught on twigs and branches, and tripped up by roguish roots. Their panic grows as they tumble deeper into the maze of trees, long left to grow wild, until one gasps to the other ‘In the name of all the saints, what place is this you have brought us to?’

The other shakes his head, and then both cry out as they feel the earth shift under their feet. On and on they scramble, any direction, so long as it takes them out and away, well clear of the cursed place, yet they only succeed in falling deeper into its trap.

‘Where is that wind coming from?’ asks one of them, as a stiff breeze comes through, pushing branches about and thrusting yet more unwanted leaves and twigs into their faces. They fall into a clearing of sorts, and almost with relief stand for a moment, clinging to each other as they regain breath. The wind increases, and with it the sound of a distant roar. The noise is added to minutes later by the full-throated roars emitted likewise by the two men, struggling insanely to fight their way out of the thicket, their plunder by now abandoned, satchel and trap thrown aside, only one thought now uppermost in their minds: that of survival.
With one final heave, as if impatient to be freed of its intruders, the earth shifts once more beneath their feet, and they find themselves hurled out on the other side, falling, rolling, scrabbling and torn, down, down, down towards a brook. Cold water shocks them into lesser hysteria, and as soon as they can stand, they take to their heels without another look back.

A small furry foot lies poking out from one of the bags left behind, a trophy from the night’s hunting. All is quiet again. The wind has gone. Yet, there is a sigh, brushing through the leaves.

 Me:  Wowsa!  There you have it.  The magic that is "B."  If you're one of those people who like to read things, you can do a lot worse than B. Lloyd.  

That's it!  Feel free to leave a comment or two.  B., thanks for stopping by!

No comments:

Post a Comment

You have an opinion about everything else. Might as well have one here. Remember, spelling counts.