Elaine Miles began writing short stories in 2006, when a back injury forced her to lie down and do nothing for six weeks. Unable to do much more than lift a pen, she thought she’d give writing a go, and sent a short story off to a writing competition, never dreaming for a minute that she’d win anything. But amazingly, she did, and she realised she might be on to something. She’s never looked back.
In 2012, Elaine won a prize for Best New Writing awarded by the Rondo Theatre in Bath. In the same year, she decided that being onstage herself might be a blast (for which read, completely terrifying) and so she began performing her stories before a live audience. Fear was rapidly replaced with the excitement and buzz of live performance, and since then she has read her stories at a multitude of live events, performing her work at the Bath Festival of Literature as well as other events in Bath and Bristol. A number of her stories and monologues have also been broadcast on BBC Radio Bristol and Bath Radio, and Tempest Productions have created audio recordings of a number of her stories.
Q: If you could travel back in time, which of the great writers would you like to meet and why?
A: John Steinbeck. To thank him for some of the most enthralling reading experiences of my life. Doubtless I’d immediately fall into a dead faint with the excitement of it all, but still.
Q: Do you have a lucky writing talisman? If so, what is it?
A: A fountain pen. It’s such a beautiful pen I always feel bound to try and get my writing to live up to it.
Q: What is the least interesting part of writing for you?
A: The interminable wait for the next idea. Oh, and formatting.
Sally locked the door hastily and darted into the alley flanking her gift shop. Because there she was again. Her new neighbour. What was she doing, wafting about the village at five o’clock on a rainy evening in February? Almost certainly yet another import from London, newly-ensconced in what should have been a family home …
‘Mum! David’s kicked the ball into the tulips!’ Spring 1965. I am seven. And a bit of a snitch. Upstairs, a curtain is scraped back and Mum appears, wagging finger completely at odds with the twinkle in her eyes. David gets away with murder now. Which is very annoying to my seven-year-old self. But just …