Book Review: Letting You Go by Anouska Knight


There are some days being a writer can really suck. And there are days like today. I’ve just humbly received a fantastic review for my latest novel, Letting You Go, and I’m still getting my hat on.
It never fails to astound me how epic it is learning that a perfect stranger has found something worthy in my writing, or how willing they are to tell the world about it. What a brilliant gift on my, ahem, 30-something birthday.
Today, with five new stillettoes from Bookaholic Holly, I’m feeling very grateful to be an author ūüėä

Originally posted on Bookaholic Confessions:

Letting You GoLetting You Go by Anouska Knight
Release Date: 10th September 2015
Publisher: MIRA
Buy:Paperback |  Kindle
5 star


What if a tragedy occurred and you only had yourself to blame? How do you move on from the past?

Alex Foster lives a quiet life, avoiding the home she hasn’t visited in eight years. Then her sister Jaime calls. Their mother is sick, and Alex must return. Suddenly she’s plunged back into the past she’s been trying to escape.

Returning to her hometown, memories of the tragic accident that has haunted her and her family are impossible to ignore. Alex still blames herself for what happened to her brother and it’s soon clear that her father holds her responsible too. As Alex struggles to cope, can she ever escape the ghosts of the past?


After a tragic accident that resulted in the death of her younger brother when Alex was looking…

View original 907 more words

Sweet Weekend

Ah, this weekend was so lush! Just thought I’d write a super-quick bloggy bit about it in case I forget it!

So we didn’t do anything drastic, the most out-of-the-ordinary part about our weekend was that is was so uneventful. Which right now, in our family is a gooood thing. The last few months have been gulped up with writing commitments, kids finding their feet at high-school, house viewings and dashing in and out of Birmingham to see my kid sis going toe-to-toe with some unpleasant treatment or other.

image whole

But not this weekend! OH NO!¬†This weekend was all about falling asleep reading books and yelling at the kids and dealing with babies on¬†hangovers (step away from that phone, the baby didn’t have the hangover) and Sunday league football.

After all that post-chemo roughness had left her feeling pretty bloody awful all week, by Friday Mena had finally made it downstairs for a few hours so¬†the boys got to say hi to her after school for a change instead of having to keep it down so she can rest. Which was a brilliant start to the weekend because they hadn’t seen her looking so beaut¬†in ages.

So Saturday, the Knight rabble headed over to Dovedale, which is about 45mins from where we live, to blow off a bit of steam. As part of the peak district it’s a pretty gorgeous place to chill out, especially under a low sun and that’s what we’d have probably done had we not have been sniping at each other for most of it. The kids rowed all the way there, obviously. Knighty and I bickered over whose parenting needed more time on the naughty step (he knows it’s his) and then after a few happy family shots and plenty of sulking in between, we finally agreed on something and yelled (as a team) at the kids all the way back home.

By the time we were back in Staffordshire, it was like the Generation Game as Knighty¬†reeled off all the things our offspring are now banned from. I contributed a few items, but he¬†had it covered. The Xbox… Colour TV… Fizzy pop, sweets, crap in general, late nights… Fun of any sort. Having friends. Smiling.

The list was endless. I was so impressed with Knighty’s decree I fancied him a bit again by the time we pulled up at the house.

So saturday was a typical family day out then, only with no major worries. It was ace. (Although our newly de-funned kids might not agree.)

And then Saturday night, our clan of five¬†actually went out! Socialising! As a family! We went out en masse and raised a glass with some pals to toast their marriage, crazy fools. We bought a round of drinks… for eight quid! EIGHT QUID! And that wasn’t the last shocker of the night either… we¬†actually managed, as a family, to make the journey back home mucking around and laughing with each other. No threats, no bickering, just a few breakneck rides up and down the street in Jesse’s buggy. Okay, so it was only a few minutes’ walk back to ours, but hey! Harmony is harmony, right?

Larking about in the middle of the night with the homies.

Larking about in the middle of the night with the homies.

Howzat for rough? My sister thinks she's got hair problems...

The Sunday morning shot. Howzat for rough? My sister thinks she’s got hair problems…

So all in all, a decent weekend topped off with yesterday, the cherry on the cake of our delightfully uneventful two days together. After weeks stuck in hospital followed by days stuck holed up feeling like rubbish at her place, my sister rocked up at my place to hang out for an hour. Fully dressed, no drips or slippers in sight. And that was our totally boring, sweet weekend!

You learn how to pout at highschool these days.

You learn how to pout at highschool these days.

I'm not gonna lie, when those hot air balloons came over the hillside, I yipped with glee. What? Those things are massive in real life!

I’m not gonna lie, when those hot air balloons came over the hillside, I yipped with glee.


Family bliss. Sort of.


Pesky kids, took breadcrumbs didn’t they…

Little Boys and Big Blazers

So Kid A has started high school. It’s been two weeks and still something tightens in my stomach when I think about him optimistically gambolling towards the school gates each morning, arms swinging inside his too-long blazer sleeves, a healthy glint¬†of trepidation in his eyes and Marmite around his mouth.

On the first day, he came home asking what a ‘bender’ was. The second week he got to watch his first real-life fight between two other first year boys, not live of course, some foul little voyeur had captured it blow for blow on his mobile phone for the likes of… well… my son, to marvel at.

Bleurgh. He only just turned eleven years old last month.¬†He gave me a kiss this morning in the car before dashing out to meet his pals. He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten that for the last two weeks, he hasn’t been so much of the chirpy wide-eyed little lad we’ve always known, but some sort of Oliver/Kevin hybrid. One minute he’s snuggled on the sofa, rupturing into one of the big numbers off the new Annie (you should check that, Jamie Foxx is H.O.T.) and¬†the next he’s listing all the ways he’s going to annihilate his younger brother if he so much as breathes wrong.


Little boy? Teenager? Where the hell is he now?! He’s not sure either, he thinks it should be somewhere nearer the Kevin end of the spectrum but this morning in his rush he forgot, and an old habit bubbled to the surface.

‘Bye, Mum!’ he chirped, offering up those lovely pudgy cheeks. I seized my chance and laid a big smackeroony on him, and then promptly¬†checked no-one in a school blazer might be watching, camera-phone poised.

As it is, he’s just come home feeling crook. He has blood on his shirt from a¬†sneezing fit (No, Anouska,¬†he didn’t get flattened by anyone, it’s not going viral on YouTube… don’t be so dramatic…) and is currently asking for a bowl of soup. So I’m off. To dispense said soup. And kisses, if he’ll let me.

Right after I’ve checked YouTube…

Oops… the self-promotion bit

Argh, I’m rubbish at this lark. A more savvy writer with a vested interest in selling books would’ve nailed this sooner. Like I should probably have done… as in two years ago, when my first book came out.

What’s that you say? A link to find and potentially¬†buy¬†my books? With ease, you say? Oh yeah, I didn’t think too much about that.

Let’s have a mooch around then…

admin…appearance…advanced settings…

… nope. I can’t even work out where to put¬†a link on this here blog. So here it is, people. In all it’s crude glory. A link. It’s even in bold. So you can find and potentially buy my books. With ease. If you want to of course x

 Click heeeere for Amazon Author Page!

Hobnobbing Harper Collins Stylee


Well. I am not a frequenter of fabulous, oyster-lavished* parties, let me tell you, but wowsers… what a truly fabbo do the Harper Collins lot put on last week!


Last Tuesday was something of a surreal experience for me. Having spoken to several fellow authors that evening, I had the distinct impression that most of them were having a delightfully surreal experience too. Phew. I thought I might be the only one wandering around the V&A in my best frock, mouth slightly agape, bubbly in hand, thinking Whoa, this place is way-HAY¬†bigger than the Blue Banana…

Never mind bigger. The V&A is stunning. The¬†John Madejski Garden provided a slightly more impressive backdrop than the garden parties I’ve thrown at my place, you don’t have to wait so long to get a refill at the V&A either.


It was perfect. The weather was perfect. The Alexander McQueen exhibit was perfect. Everything was pretty darned perfect. Fair enough, as someone who spends most of her life in jeans and flip flops darting from one health-hazard to the next while my 11 month old son tests my reflexes, I was already pretty excited about the whole affair, the invitation landing on my hall floor had kicked that whimageeel into motion a few weeks before.

After months slogging it out on my third novel, the prospect of a full scrub-up and an evening schmoozing with the likes of David Walliams** was nothing short of giddying. However, it wasn’t until I’d slurped a couple of cocktails with my editor at the Mandarin Oriental and flip-flopped my way down to the venue (heels were in handbag, obvs) that I realised how lucky I was to be there. ¬†¬†¬†¬†

By all accounts, the annual Harper Collins Summer Party is a pretty exclusive bash. Authors published¬†by them (or indeed like myself, published by Harlequin – now part of the HC group) must have a book due for release during the same year to get a toe in the door, I’m told. I only hope they’ll have me, and my toes, back again next year… the chances of which are probably not¬†helped by the fact that I accidentally managed to tip a glass of bubbly over the beautiful black silk dress of one of my colleagues. Groan.

Oh, and I also said something to the MD of Harlequin about feeling like I’d gotten my ‘big girl pants’… in the authory sense, of course, but still. Double groan.

Social ineptitude aside, I had the BEST¬†time. One of the first people I spoke to was an enviably-attractive blonde called Rosie who I’d practically pounced on because she was sporting a lovely little baby bump which obviously bonded us in some exclusive way, I tried to explain, simply because I’ve recently added another sprog to our own clan, plus I’m always a little awed by women who manage to look anything other than the bloated sweaty mess I had when my pregnancy met the summer months.

I probably bored her senseless but she was very lovely and polite and didn’t at all show it if I had. Trust me, this was something I gave a lot of thought to later on having learned that Rosie is the editor of Hello magazine.¬†Agh. At least I didn’t utter I carried a watermelon…¬†I don’t think?!¬†No offence to my colleague but thank goodness it wasn’t the editor of Hello‘s¬†dress I lobbed my champers at. Shudder.


Amid¬†the fun and frolics though, despite my excitability, I did find myself having a brief moment of calm clarity. Not so long ago, while idly pondering how people ever actually got a chance at being ‘proper’ published writers, I felt as if I was stuck on one¬†side of a very high wall, without the faintest¬†clue how to bust through it and become one of the privileged minority I imagined on the other side, writing their novels, mingling with other equally privileged beings at delightful gatherings in London. It’s not all like that, as any author will say. Writing is mostly about late nights (not the fun kind), baggy clothes and baggier eyelids.

But last Tuesday night, for a few wonderful hours, there was no question about it. I was on the other side of that wall.

So keep writing, writers. Because you never know what may come x


Think I was the only one who looked like a snap-happy tourist. Again, groan.

*I’m a bit of a philistine. I didn’t brave an oyster. My best friend warned me ‘it’s like licking phlegm off a turtle’. She’s a nurse. I trust her about this stuff.

**I didn’t schmooze with David Walliams, I didn’t even realise he was there until the next morning – doh.

Muffin-Top Wars – the first sweaty gyration.


That’s it. I’m all out of excuses.

Jesse Boy is ten months old, he’s not interested in mum’s moloko¬†any more so I no longer need to eat with him in mind, book 3 is finished and in the last couple of weeks, my mum has retired.

So I can diet. I can leave the baby for an hour and go to the gym. See? My excuses are like the contents of our¬†biscuit tin. Ain’t nuttin left.

That said, I can’t have my mother running over to our place every day and seeing as I love scoffing¬†food almost as much as I love my kids (some days it’s close… real close), I’m going to have to put in a regular effort if these thighs are ever gonna see the inside of my favourite slacks¬†again.

Much as I’ve enjoyed developing them, and much as they hang so attractively out of the top of my maternity jeans (yes, I’m still wearing them), I need to shift these muffin tops.

I need something quick and simple I can do at home a couple of times a day without anyone watching me wiggle. So I’m having another blast with a Hula Hoop, which is fairly fitting given how many packets of Salt & Vinegar I snaffled during the last months finishing off my manuscript.

I’ve tried this before, when they were first in fash, and it bloody killed. After knocking the kettle off the kitchen worktop with the¬†hoop from hell (the thing was stupid-huge, you needed a helipad for safe clearance) and persevering because it was ‘working wonders’ for the bloody celebs, my weak, commoner ribs felt like they’d¬†been kicked by a horse. I actually cried privately after wincing my way through a second bash with that awful contraption. It now resides in the shed… nicely webbed up and covered in slug trails… right next to my fitness trampette.

But I’ve got myself a new bad boy. A new, padded-so-I-don’t-hurt-meself jobby. So I’m gonna give it a proper good whirl this time, twice a day away from small kitchen appliances, and see how the old muffin-tops fare. If I’m organised, I might even manage to keep some kinda¬†Hula Hoop diary goin. This could get messy…

Knighty’s muffin-tops. A brief history…


Briefly muffin-less


Belly nicely stretching out/disguising muffin situation

photo 2

Momentary motivation fuelled by imminent swim-suit season

photo 1

Weapon of choice/small snack to keep me goin