An Interview with Kev Richardson

Kev Richardson's Web Page

Why did you start fiction writing and what genre(s) do you like to write?

An Australian, I discovered I was descended from convicts despatched to Australia in 1788 to found a prison. That was the start of "White Australia". I became a member of "First Fleet Fellowship" (and eventually President), so I studied that history. It was exciting stuff so being retired, I started writing books about it. My first book won an Award in England! So I kept writing...6 books on that. I had the writing bug and had travelled many parts of the world, so had many exciting experiences...all good background stuff. I've 27 books with Wings-Press, all based on my worldwide experiences. Every one has earned 5 Stars (and more!) from reknowned review writers.

Why this/these genre(s)? What attracts you to them? 

All were personal experiences, and exciting. 

Generally speaking, what is the driving force behind your characters? Have any of your characters changed in dramatic way from what you imagined at the start during the writing process?

Travelling the world for 3 months every year, I met many exciting characters. I didn't have to make them up, I just used the impression I'd got. All types! Many proved so attractive they've become lifelong friends. 

What do you find the most difficult in finishing a story and approximately how long does it take for you to write a story?

Never difficult! Every tale ended on a plotted scheme. On my first book, an American reviewer wrote, "And Oh that ending! It hit me right in the gut!" Endings were planned before the story started. How long? Anything from a month to a year, for mostly I have at least two books on the go at the same time.

 
Has your writing affected you in any way and what would you recommend to someone wanting to start writing fiction?

It made my life exciting. And starting? Everybody in the world has had an experience to stick in your mind. Plot a book-length story around it. Use characters that have stuck in your memory. You don't have to wait until you retire...surely you have seen a movie that's reminded you of something in your peronal history. Build your own exciting tale around that! And use people you have met as character types...next door neighbours and your every aunt and uncle. 

Kev Richardson on Amazon

A Soul Forsaken

By Kev Richardson
Mainstream/Historical, 299 pages
Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald
 
A true tale of how an Egyptian born son can be educated to achieve honours in his chosen university studies, yet denied the right to turn them into a career.

Every Egyptian child adopts at birth its father’s nationality, so many find themselves a foreigner in his land of birth. Another law denies foreigners in Egypt, the right to work. With neighbouring Sudan in an ongoing civil war, this young man risks assassination if even visiting his father’s country, let alone wanting to reside and work there.

What can he do when even visas are denied Sudan’s citizens to any western country, simply fearing being ‘smothered’ by countless Sudanese wanting to flee the mayhem?

In this case, a visiting westerner takes up the challenge of finding a way around this poor fellow’s political dilemma.

Excerpt:
Zamalec, Cairo…

“This, Mama?”

She nodded. “Yes, son. For the sunroom.”

Ali and his mother were going through the house, attaching coloured Post-It tabs to every item of furniture.

Yellow designated leave-in-the-house, green meant deliver to her father’s home, pink designated being sold at auction.

They were under no time limit to quit the Sudan government property, yet the hint had been ‘within a month or two.’ They were moving only a few streets away to her parents’ home, where tradesmen were currently closing this door and opening a new one in other walls, that the el-Haq duo had their own apartment of four rooms plus a kitchen and shared bathroom.

Madame el-Haq was now agitating even more strongly that Ali began thinking seriously of marriage.

“There is garden space enough that the new apartment can be extended another room, son.”

“Yes, Mother, but again I must insist that I do not yet marry. Any son born to me in Egypt will grow up with my dreadful impediment to life’s happiness. I simply cannot cast such a slur on any child.”

“The Sudanese problem will one day be over, Ali, when you could take your family to Khartoum or El Fasher. We have talked on this so many times.”
“Yes, Mother, and every time finish realising that the ‘when’ of it can never be gauged. Only when I can see myself safely welcomed into Sudan will I marry. If you do not want me living with you, I can take my own apartment somewhere, or go back to university and further my education.”

“I should miss you dreadfully if you moved away, Ali, but a man of your age continuing to live with his mother is not Allah’s way. It must attract suspicion of homosexuality to cast doubt on my father’s entire family. A bachelor son in his twenties should be marrying.”

“Well, until accepted in the Sudan, I cannot. But if you fear slurs, Mama, I shall take the University course. However, I would prefer time to see what happens in the Sudan, also to keep appealing to the British Embassy.”

Ali was silent a long time. We have been through this so many times, every time ending up deciding nothing. I could enter the monkhood, yet I cannot devote my entire life and spirit to that. I envy Evan the freedom he has, yet whilst I could be self-employed like that, I must depend on what money I could earn from outside Egypt. And changing foreign money has a limit, one too small to grant me a livelihood.

Every which-way he looked, there were barriers.

How long can a man keep sponging on his family and maintain pride? Suffer the ignominy of having no career or even purpose in life? Man was not made to live so. Life here can only continue demeaning.

He realised that family money, while continuing to give him a comfortable life, did nothing towards giving him personal satisfaction.

My studies in physics have me qualified to be earning good money, even one day to receiving some notoriety. Surely such is every man’s dream—every man but one born in Egypt of a Sudanese father!

What If?

By Kev Richardson
Historical Fantasy, 311 pages
Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald
 
Excerpt:
January 1944
In Great Britain, Hitler made much of being filmed sightseeing London.

He issued firm warnings to his Volksaufklärung und Propaganda (Reich Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda), Joseph Goebbels, that every inch of footage was  made available for every Briton to see.

One of Hitler’s closest adherents, a master orator and virulent disciple in the extermination of Jews, Goebbels was assigned considerable freedom in rewriting English language textbooks in German, as well as full control of censoring press and radio announcements throughout Great Britain and Ireland. One of his first dictates was the surrender of every English language dictionary in the land, in exchange for a German dictionary and an English to German translation guide. Retaining copies of English dictionaries was pronounced a crime—the penalty, death by firing squad.

In a private cabinet meeting with Göring, Goebbels, Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel, Chief High Commander of Armed Forces, his 2IC Alfred Jodl, Admiral Erich Raeder of the German Navy, and Admiral Karl Dönitz, U Boot Kommandant, Hitler outlined his plans to attack Russia.

“Maybe another year and early in the spring, gentlemen. How quickly we can rebuild our forces in each of your areas will dictate in which year. Stalin is driving his forces to the limit in his haste to wrap up the Middle East’s oil fields, and our intelligence chiefs report that he plans no rest period before attacking India. We need to have all our forces refreshed, re-equipped and ready by the time Russian forces are at their weakest.”

He pulled down one of the score of maps rolled up in the huge map bank mounted on the wall where every man present had a clear view. It showed the present border between their two countries from the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea. His map had but a dotted line splitting Romania in two.

“Hungary, Romania, and Bulgaria are remaining true to the Nazi doctrine and my expectation is that they will grant us every assistance if assured we will come to their assistance should Russia invade. Our secret preparations, however, will be for a Blitzkrieg attack along this present border in the old Poland. We can expect Finnish permission to attack Leningrad through their border come early summer when clear of snow. By that time, however, we will have won for you, naval gentlemen, the entire coastline of the Baltic States currently reeling under Russia’s poor treatment of them.”

He sat, leaving the map exposed on the wall behind him.

“I have assurances from Japan that, given two months’ notice, they will attack Siberia both from Manchuria-based land forces and Vladivostok by naval forces.”

“Can we trust the Japanese to keep such a promise? How secure will be our secrecy, with them knowing our plans?”

Hitler made a pyramid of his hands while raising eyebrows at Alfred Jodl.

“Do you see the smile on Erich’s face, Alfred? We have right now, on board one of his light cruisers in the South China Sea, supported by flanking destroyers, V5 rockets for Japan to begin raining on Hawaii from bases in the Aleutians. General Tojo has my personal promise that he shall have our V7s as soon as we have finished perfecting and testing them. They will reach even the most southern point on the USA west coast, and many kilometres inland of it. Japan has much to gain by maintaining our confidence in its security.”

He deliberately refrained from telling them all, which only Göring and Keitel so far knew, that the V7 was also intended for use by Germany, if necessary, on Canada and the United States’ eastern states, from Iceland.

Also, whenever he was ready to approach the United States for peace talks, he would ensure that American intelligence was aware that Jamaica and all other British islands in the Caribbean had been prepared for rocket launching into the Unites States.

Then with Russia subdued, Germany and Japan can carve up the entire rest of the world. Each will then control enough of the world’s raw materials to be able to bargain on where the world’s few borders will fall.

Beresford at Bay

By Kev Richardson
Beresford Branson Series Book Four
Historical, 327 pages
Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald
Link

At the end of World war II, the Allied Control Council is given leave to decide on the rebuilding of Germany. Political infighting however, makes headway difficult as the Big 3 trip and stumble over each others’ feet.

Democracy and Communism cannot find a common path in leading Germany out of Nazism into a more meaningful nation in terms of international unity.

Can Beresford’s Red Cross influence help save what seems an inevitable failure of the Zoning system?

Excerpt:
We left as the early sunset began plunging Düsseldorf into darkness, arriving at our stake-out house and half groped our way into the room with its roof mostly intact, even though two of the brick walls had gaping rents. Even the door had been quite shattered. Scattered rat-shit was the only evidence of the room having been, at some time, inhabited by squatters. A sole blown-out window alone gave clear sight of the Ubahn entrance.

Already we were shivering.

“You guys were on the roof last night?”

“On the bit that remains, yes,” they said as if in chorus.

I shivered at the thought.

Wow, I was beginning to feel a real sleuth—my first such opportunity to help discover a covert operation, one of the very purposes Force 8673 was founded.

We were lucky. Five fellows drove an ancient pick-up to the station entrance. All alighted, proceeding to haul stuff out of the back. One item was all we needed to see and there it was, one end showing through a rent in its wrapping, a brass banner, its apex the circle encasing what was today’s illegal emblem, the Nazi Swastika.

Oh! In our first few minutes of watching? Already here is proof enough to call in MI5’s muscle-men!

Tremors were coursing through me.

“Come on fellows, that’s all we need. Let’s get to safety. I’ll buy wine for celebrating!”

But had Ego been right, again?

~ * ~

I couldn’t help but feel it had all been so easy.

The very first arrival?

Yet an ominous sound reached all our ears, for we looked at each other in surprise. From the empty doorway came lights of several torches.

Too many, was my instant fear!

Much German swearing and guttural oaths broke the night’s quiet.

All at once, we realised the portent, fearful to say the least.

Philip had been on duty with the binoculars, Daniel and I crouched on the floor side-by-side close by. Daniel grabbed my arm.

“Quickly, Berry,” he whispered loudly enough for Philip to also hear. “Out the window.”

Philip, already on his feet, despite being near twice Daniel’s and my ages, was first out. I ushered Daniel out after him, and as I followed, I saw out of the corner of an eye, Philip drop the binoculars. In the dark he couldn’t see them.

“Forget them,” I called as I loped off after Daniel, expecting Philip would follow.

Daniel had dashed into the ruins of an adjoining building.

“They might think we ran down the laneway,” he whispered back at me.

I couldn’t hear noises close behind me, but could only wonder what might still be happening back in the room we had just abandoned.

But oh? Where is Philip?

Even Ego couldn’t answer.

Daniel kept running across the room we arrived in, to disappear through a half collapsed doorway. I had a snatch view of Philip struggling with two other dark forms.

I saw no option but to follow Ego’s advice.

“Run,” he was now urging me. “Follow Daniel. You can do nothing to help Philip. More of the critters are already coming through that window.”

A Home for Old Ladies

By Kev Richardson
Contemporary Romance, 416 pages
Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald

Blurb:

A loving couple chooses a derelict old Hospital to turn into a family home.

Stanford Lodge had a proud past. Its heritage must be preserved.

Guts and dreams in satisfying its old inhabitants, inspire lovers—yet a labour of love is not all joy. How much can dedication bear?

Excerpt:

“Shouldn’t you be getting a bricklayer for that, darling?”

I had mortar mixed and was laying bricks for two steps from the back door, down to the terrace floor level. I had already built a solid foundation for them.

“No-one is going to see it, my dear. I will be crazy-paving all the wall, the terrace surface and steps.”

“You told me this would be only one step. You are laying two.”

“When building the retaining wall, I realised not only how many bricks would be saved, but how much time I would save by reducing its height two courses, another step level.”

“Oh well that’s all right then. You know how to do crazy paving?”

“I’ll learn on the job, dear.”

She waited, before rolling her eyes, until I looked straight at her.

“You are sure the Old Ladies won’t mind?”

“I will let them know, dear.”

~ * ~

A flexible rule was that Maggie or I would cook dinner, and the kids feed the dish-washer and finish homework before considering TV. That was made once Mags and I decided not to wait on the new kitchen before installing a dishwasher. This reduced the workload on all, even Evelyn’s. Her work had increased, however, to keeping all windows clean, inside and out, even rooms awaiting Restoration.

“That way, darling,” Mags had pleaded, “it just makes the place that much more liveable.”

Dinners during the week were grilled chops or something easy to heat up. The summer’s long twilights were great for barbeques. We were also great salad fiends. Sometimes we gave Evelyn the task of shopping for and preparing casseroles for our freezer. All this gave Mags and me extra time for Renovations. For weekends, Evelyn would prepare roasts. Leanne was encouraged to become adept in roasting potatoes, pumpkin and parsnips to perfection, and boiling up greens.

Tiffany grew quickly and was now being walked each afternoon. She was trained in her toilet hygiene and to alert us when hearing the front gate opening. In a corner of the Big Hole, I had built for Tiffy, a plank ramp. Leanne showed her, time after time, that this was the way to her toilet. A sand-pile was out back and each evening before dinner, Leanne would throw a shovelful over the mess.

Maggie acquired a gardening fetish. The House and Garden magazine we subscribed to had given her the urge. She made time between rehearsals for George, not only to read up on rose culture, dragging me around plant nurseries on weekends, but insisted on doing her own digging in the formal rose-gardens. Paul on occasions helped with the heavy digging along the front veranda facings. She had planned for there, in full view of all approaching up the front path, an English Garden of foxgloves, lily-of-the-valley, petunia, lavender and pansies in their dozens of colours. I had a man in to dig the soil over along the entire side fence, and fertilizing it ready for Maggie to plant hydrangeas, rhododendrons, azaleas, golden forsythia and camellias.

“I simply cannot wait until the veranda posts are painted so I can plant climbing roses and sweet peas,” she kept hinting. “And a passion-fruit vine,” she added for good luck.

“Next summer,” I promised with crossed fingers.