Quotes by Sara Sheridan

Researching books gets you into nothing but trouble.

Sometimes I create a character from a scrap - a mere mention that has been left behind.

In the industry, trying out new genres is not always encouraged but what Ive discovered is that as a writer, a jaunt outside my comfort zone generally brings new skills to the main body of my work.

For a writer its a genuinely interesting and hopefully profitable era that makes a variety of books available to a variety of readers, extending both whats available and who gets to read it.

I remember calling the councils cemetery department to ask about body decomposition in different soil types. Once they had verified that I was a novelist and not a sicko, they were extremely helpful.

Its part of a writers job to be nosy about everything.

I love writing, and just as much, I love undertaking research.

The space where I write is in my head, I suppose.

I jealously guard my research time and I love fully immersing myself in those dusty old books and papers. Its one of the most enjoyable parts of my job.

When a chap is passionate, the readership can sense it.

Being a writer is a more difficult job than people imagine.

I realised early on that being an author is a hugely misunderstood job.

Edinburgh is a comfortable puddle for a novelist.

Im a professional writer and I consider it part of my job to publicise my work and these days part of that job is done online.

As a historical novelist, there are few jobs more retrospective.

Today is the anniversary of my husband’s death, Maria announced. It was a dramatic statement, but the occasion seemed to demand it. And I am going to leave.

Parts of my 20s and 30s have gone by in a flash but my childhood is with me all the time.

It’s not until you’re older that you realise how important the things that happened to you when you were a kid are. Even things you only half remember.

There was something unbearable about the damp, dark earth closing over a coffin and the still, empty flesh that was inside. She had attended a hundred funerals, but when you really loved someone there was something too final about a burial. Something brutal.

An eerie atmosphere leeched from the soot-damaged walls. It was as if the house had died, and yet she felt she belonged here. It was as if the old place wanted to claim her from the grave.