C. McDonald is the kind of writer that makes other writers give up writing. She’s a weaver, a wordsmith, a perfectionist. A mutual friend said once, C. would eat a dictionary for lunch and fart perfect chapters in the afternoon. A bit of a crude simile, but thoroughly appropriate. If Shakespeare had one day decided to swap plays for epic fantasy novels, the result might have been something on a par with her Noor Trilogy – and yes, she did paint those cover images herself.
She’s also one of the cruellest critics I’ve ever had, serving up her scathing remarks on the silver platter of British politeness. Through her, I’ve learned to translate “You’re having a bit of a but-fest in that paragraph, dear, aren’t you?” to “That’s ten times ‘but’ in as many lines, stupid, clean that up.”
I’d have put an author pic to go with this page, but well, what do I say…when you ask C. for a photo, you get the verbal equivalent of this:
Angelika Rust 