Yes, the weather or climate is important in many of my books. I think that’s why I like setting my books in Florida. Here the climate is so different from England. Last year when I was there in the summer, it would be hot and steamy; you could guarantee that around 3.00 in the afternoon a violent electrical storm would occur. Magic.
Of course the British weather is very varied, as Bob Hope used to say “In Great Britain you have four seasons, all in one day” and that is so true. This is a boon to the writer. There is the thrashing cold rain, but there is the soft gentle rain of a warm early summer afternoon. The latter can be quite romantic, the perfect weather for a kiss!
A Poisoned Legacy published by Robert Hale Ltd
The next morning clouds drove across the early patch of blue blocking out the sun. It was hot, hotter than she had experienced before. It robbed her of energy and for the first time she upped the cooler in the house.
Stepping outside was like jumping into a full-on oven. Rivers of sweat broke out all or her body, dripping between her breasts and from her face. Her hair was lank though it had been freshly washed. Lethargically she moved back into the house enjoying the embrace of cool air on her overheated skin.
Florida - A Fatal Flaw – published by whiskey Creek Press
There was a back gate. It was always opened but because of the storm the bolts had been secured. Carefully, she slid her hand along the mesh and wood, feeling for the bolts. Remembering there were three, one at the top and she stood on tiptoe until she felt its coldness against her fingertips, she slid it open then sought the one in the middle and lastly went on her knees to slide the bottom bolt. That took longer than the others did to find, it was a small bolt. Then there was the catch, she raised it quietly, the moment she partly opened the door the wind gushed in, whipping the door out of her hands and banging it against the wall. The fearsome wind raided the lanai, upturning chairs, something was blown into the pool, but she knew she could not wait to see what it could be; she burst out through the door, knocked to her feet by the force of the wind. Scrambling up, she bent her body forward and hurtled herself into the wind.
Hugging the lawn, she ran between the trees. The rain lashed against her, the wind making progress difficult; she was no more than a flower stalk to its power. It invaded every part of her, lifting and ballooning out her jacket, yet there was too much adrenalin pounding away for her to feel the chill.
The gates at the end of the drive were not fastened; they were pushed wide open, unusual because they usually were closed and bolted at night. She had wondered if she would have to scale them, or look for an alternative way out.
There were gulleys at the side of the road, these now she saw were filled with rainwater that was being whipped along, white froth spilling up and over into the road.. She stepped out. As the lane was narrow the wind was less intense than in the open areas. The huge trees she could see were swaying like mad dancers. They were indigenous trees; they were pretty good at withstanding the storm but even so she noticed the road was littered with branches.
Pausing for a second to catch her breath was the worst thing she could have done. She felt a hand tight on her shoulders.
“And where do you think you’re going, little lady?”
Kerensa lashed out, grinding her foot into the man’s shoe, her trainer was inadequate, and he wore trainers too. Poke his eyes, she remembered that from observing a self defense class for a story, but as she reached up her hands he backed off, somehow whirled around to her back and getting hold of her arms, pinioning them to her back, his knee at her spine caused her to gag.
A Fatal Flaw, Cornwall.
Kerensa Mawgan put down the telephone and standing at the window, stared out at a view of the valley down to the undulating river. On the other side of the river was a tree covered high bank. Everything glistened in the warm, steaming mist that had come up river after the storm.
Laboriously, she pulled back the sliding window and stepped outside. The Yorkshire stone patio glistened with puddles of water; it gave the stone an intensity of colour, almost as if it were cast with purple dye. Everything dripped wetly in the weak sun that was successfully breaking through the mist. She felt that if she put her ear to any puddle, then it would give out the sound of sizzling.
So there we have descriptions of different weather, it’s marvellous to have it, imagine if it was the same weather day after day, pretty boring for the writer. Don’t you think?