Quite a long time ago, Lynda was born in the South Wales Valleys. At the age of six she wrote her first story, 'The Green Bone' and she recently discovered a book of poetry penned during her teenage years – full of angst, and adoration for Steve Harley (hopefully, her writing has improved since then!). Lynda's published works are: ‘Not as Pointless as You Think (humorous short fiction), Ashes of a Valleys Childhood (poems about growing up in the valleys) and Danny Down the Drainpipe (a picture book). Right now she's writing a novel as part of Swansea University's PhD course – (she's written other novels but they're either not finished or not publishable). She likes writing that doesn't explain itself, and is pedantic about present participles and sentences that include 'As'. When she isn't writing, Lynda juggles family life with teaching English Language GCSE and Creative Writing in adult education colleges and tutoring Little Writers Inc (a Newport-based writing group). Her other joys of life are cake, cats, kids, snow, Guinness and Ireland, which is where you’ll find her if she ever goes missing.
Lynda Nash in 60 seconds
When did you start writing?2000
What do you love about Short Stories?They are short.
Do you write in other forms?Poetry, micro-fict, novels...
What distracts you from writing?Bad TV.
Outside of writing, what are your other passions?Stationery and salt and Killer Suduko.
What is your favourite book?A Clockwork Orange.
Who are your favourite writers?Margaret Atwood, Lesley Glaister and John Wyndham
Where is your dream location?Ireland
What one item would you put into Room 101?Parmesan cheese
Do you have any advice for new writers?Don't be afraid to write badly - if you can't write wrong, you won't write right!
Work by Lynda Nash:
The White Dog Of Barafundle Bay
A soldier home on leave sees things he cannot quite believe and finds his wife in a strange, compromising position. "The Boathouse Café had an air about it that suggested sea and sand. If it had been inland patrons would have drank their coffee, eaten their scones and felt nostalgic for the beach without knowing why. It was the décor, Phillip decided. Crisp white walls, low beams, driftwood picture frames, and a candy striped canopy over the ice-cream booth outside. He ordered a fried egg and sausage bap but the assistant with a tattoo on her boney arm, written in a script he couldn’t decipher, informed him that it was after eleven o’clock. They didn’t serve breakfast after eleven, but since when had fried egg and sausage become solely breakfast food? Had he been away that long? If he decided to take the next tour – Middle East, Mosul or Marshhad no doubt – would he come back to find soup sold at lunchtime only or teacakes served only after three in the afternoon? The girl’s lip curled when she spoke to him as if he were the hundredth person to ask for sausage and egg that day. Did she have no respect for a uniform? For all he knew she might have thought his clothes were fancy dress and him, just another case of too much sun to the head. The sun had a lot to answer for in these parts..."
Spooning With Colin
Colin is an estate agent with idiosyncrasies and a hatred of cats - which drives the narrator to despair. "When we met, Colin was thirty-five, an estate agent with a collection of vinyl records that stretched from floor to ceiling and a head of hair like Lee van Cleef. For the first few months we were together Colin adored me. He adored my turned up nose, my wonky smile, the way I read a map upside down. Quirky he called me..."
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