Normal 0 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} Pamela Kelt was born in Edinburgh in 1957 and was transported to England by her parents when she was two, when her father got a job as a geography teacher in Liverpool. They lived in Southport, a quaint seaside town which is hazy about its role in the world. It would like to be Brighton. It knows it’s better than Blackpool, but it wavers.   During daylight hours, she slogged away at one of those ghastly girls’ grammar schools that people think only exist on screen or in books. She vows never to wear bottle green again. And don’t talk to her about games lessons.   Escape came in the form of a Spanish degree at the University of Manchester. What a great way to avoid any semblance of real work, she reckoned, and SpanSoc was a hoot, with its 70s-style wine and cheese parties. But although Spanish was fun, she didn’t fancy teaching, which was the main career option for girls in those days. Later, after six brain-fogging months under a newseditor who made Torquemada look like a nice lollipop man, she fled to Oxford and completed an M. Litt thesis on ‘Comic aspects of satirical 17th-century comic interludes by Luis Quiñones de Benavente’, which was much more interesting. Not a PhD, but hey. It was a blast. And, oh, the parties. Mind you, she would it to be know that she'll never drink blue curaçao mixed with egg nog again.   Unfortunately, she still hadn’t managed to forget enough French or Portuguese for total unemployment and so ended up as a technical translator for a civil engineering company of all things. She later escaped that and a misguided first marriage and reverted to copywriting for anyone who would pay. After marrying an Australian post-grad, she flew off to WA for a stint and ended up as a senior sub-editor – working in an office with a rooftop pool and a view of the Swan River.   Then back to Blighty. Preston, Cambridge, Bath – more provincial newspapers, more silly Friday afternoons with tiddly journos trying to find a funny headline. Ah. Once a pun a time.   As her academic husband muscled up the slippery pole to become a chemistry professor in something even she can’t spell, she moved into educational magazines and online publishing. Headline writing was a useful skill, along with a sense of humour. Then, a daughter arrived (hers, so she was told) and re-introduced her to fiction, which she’d sort of forgotten about. She’d simply not had the time to read anything other than what was thrown at her to correct.   But, the world of provincial publishing crumbled. One day, she found myself walking the dogs round Guy’s Cliffe, a beauty spot by the River Avon, not far from Kenilworth in Warwickshire, thinking ‘to hell with a career’ and took the plunge into writing for herself. Soon, she had several box files of old, unfinished manuscripts literally holding up the shelves in the study (one called The Evil Magi of Scrunge – an arcane classic). Her first book was THE LOST ORCHID, a tale of intrigue set against the heady backdrop of so-called ‘orchidmania’ when the wealthy clamoured for ever more exotic blooms, and ruthless dealers despatched their most determined and cunning plant hunters to the furthest reaches of the British Empire.   The theme was partly based on her Scottish heritage. Her father’s parents were wildlife buffs, so she was drilled in the names of things, some of them in Latin, and informed just how many of the discoverers were Scottish. As she pondered on how to draw it all into a book, the subject buried a hook in her brain.   Anyway, she executed the final edit and nearly got an agent – honestly, it was close. After some thought, she took the advice of a wise friend (thanks, Sian) and plunged into e-publishing.   It turned out to be quite a snorkelling experience for one brought up with quills. Well, not quite, but close enough. She loves the idea of selling virtual copies, without chopping down a tree.   Thanks to Crooked Cat, MuseItUp and Bluewood, she now has seven titles, in different genres:   Dark Interlude - a post-WWI romantic thriller The Lost Orchid - Gothic-style historical fiction Ice Trekker - YA fantasy fiction Half Life - pre-WW2 romantic thriller Tomorrow's Anecdote - retro mystery set in the 1980s The Cloud Pearl - Teen/tween fantasy True Haven - YA fantasy.   Pamela has also edited a book by her late father: the original Cold War thriller, Not With A Whimper, is now on Crooked Cat.