Step Back In Time… Cover Reveal!

Last weekend my publisher Carina UK, a digital offshoot from HarperCollins, held a #StepBackInTime social media event. As well as getting Mary Poppins’ Step In Time stuck in my head (and now quite possibly in yours), the glorious cover for my latest historical romance was revealed:

The cover is stunning. As an author, there is nothing better than finding out the cover for your latest story truly matches up to what’s between the pages. For me, it captures a key scene in To Wed a Rebel about love, betrayal, hope and redemption. (Can you tell I really like this story – I think you will too.)

And you can read more about why I love writing historical romance on the Carina UK blog:

A class system to revolt against, delicious scandals to fire gossip and pistols at dawn. While working on my latest historical romance To Wed a Rebel, I was immersed in the regency era. Historical fiction captures our imaginations, makes our hearts beat a little faster, and takes us to a place that’s far enough removed from the modern world, while still holding familiarity.

Here are my five reasons why I love writing historical fiction…

To my fellow writers – why do you love writing historical romance?

And to my fellow readers – why do you love reading it?

The feline face-hugger and my worst nightmare

Above is a re-enactment of that fateful day, only a demented rabbit has stepped in to play the role of ‘insane, murderous pussy’

As an introductory post, I would like to share with you my biggest childhood trauma. It will help us get to know one another, because nothing says ‘friendship’ like an emotional breakdown.

Our tale begins, dear reader, one Christmas when I was quite small. My grandmother used to collect rescue cats: fat ones no one wanted, sadistic fur-balls who bit anything that moved, that one alarming creature that sat and stared at you for hours on end. You knew it was planning your demise. You knew.

Boxing Day came. The wrapping paper had been cleaned up, new toys were being played with, the adults smelt like sherry and kept falling asleep after every meal. A Christmas tree, with its twinkling lights and glittering baubles, sat in the hallway. My sibling and I had decorated it (though only on one side, as our arms could stretch no further) and it leaned precariously to the left, weighed down by our failure.

With small, plump hands I reached towards one branch for a little chocolate bell, ones my grandmother had bought for us all. I had it in my grasp, the tinfoil cold against my palm. I could almost taste it. Then the creature pounced. It was a shadow drenched in fury, a fuzzy ball with horror and destruction on its mind. It went for the face.

I began screaming and groped my way into the living room with a crazed feline attached to my skull, like Phantom of the Opera, one eye covered, only less dashing and more flea-bitten. It was a dark time, purely because I could not see. From that day forth, every December has been associated with that one incident. Never trust a Christmas tree, for within its depths is a portal to Hell that could spit out Satan’s worst disciples. I would know, I met one.

And there you have it. I feel we’ve bonded.

However, as a proper introduction, I am Sophie. I write romantic, action-packed fiction with ballsy heroines and brooding men. I like pie, I like dogs, I like good books and hummus (not together, as books dipped in hummus is a bad move). And, I have to confess, I don’t mind cats. Christmas trees though, they’re dodgy.

Do please share your own childhood traumas, let’s get it all out in blog-format. It’s cheaper than therapy, trust me.