1. Before we start talking about your book, why don’t you tell everybody a little bit about yourself?
I am an English, so this is a hard question. I am insomniac. I write at night while the stars look at me through the window. I sleep at dawn, making regular work difficult and it doesn't suit me. So I moved from a nice attic with a view of the river in west London to a crumbling squat with a view of the banks in east London.
2. Besides writing, what other things do you enjoy doing in your spare time?
That's not easy, either. In my spare time I count my shoes, hide in the closet and fret when my boyfriend's late, which he never is. I swim, fast walk, snack, drink too much and argue with Mother, a complete bitch if ever there were one.
3. What is your daily routine as far as when you have an idea for your story?
Night, between two and six the words are like mosquitoes I chase around the room, squashing them in bloody pools on the page and carving them like an insane surgeon until they shine like rubies.
4. Where do you get your ideas from?
My life , all writing is a autobiographical. The portrait painter always paints the mood of himself. If I were to write about a young black boy from an impoverished background who wanted to be a boxer I would make him quietly determined, watchful, vaguely bi-polar – my opposite but me.
5. Out of all of the stories you’ve written so far, what would be your favorite and why?
My favourite is The Secret Life of Girls because it recalls a time in my life when everything was bathed in sunshine. I invented a character, Bella, Lolita crossed with the Marquis de Sade, and she raced through the pages with an urgency I found hard to keep up with. People love this book.
6. Tell us something funny about yourself that not a lot of people know about?
I burst into tears when I'm happy, which doesn't happen often, and I'm stoical when I'm sad; holding on in quiet desperation is the English way, as Roger Waters put it.
7. Does any of the stories you’ve written based on real life experiences or basically just from imagination?
Well, as I've said, most come from life, but I do add a touch of imagination and try to be like Rene Magritte, turning night to day and setting fire to brass tubas.
8. Does your ‘muse’ have a name and if so what is his/her name?
My muse is a HE and his name is BLACK DWARF, I hate him, he makes me depressed, he keeps me from my bed, he whispers in my ear when I'm making love and he drives me wickedly onwards. Now I have called up his name, he will visit me tonight and give me a panic attack.
9. What other genre besides the one you are writing about now would you like to venture into writing?
I will turn from erotica to romance and I will write the greatest love story ever told. I kid you not. It's not ready yet, but one day it will be.
10. Who are your favorite authors that are out now?
My favourite authors are mainly dead: Milan Kundera, Anais Nin, Nikos Kazantzakis. Modern authors; Brett Easton Ellis, Jonathan Franzen, Martin Amis when he can get over being up himself.
11. Who is your favorite female and male characters from your books and why?
Excuse the repetition: my favourite female character is Bella, Bella, Bella, I love her, I am her, I want to be her. My favourite male is Tom Bridge in my new novel because I can't work the bastard out. He's a volunteer doctor with Médecins Sans Frontières, he's a good man, good looking, but there's a coldness about him and he won't tell me, I mean Katie, the character, that he loves her. She feels it. She just wants to hear it.
12. What do you think is the hardest thing about being a writer?
The depression, sleeplessness, the sense of futility, the striving after an impossible goal, the lack of money, complete idiots who get free books at giveaways on Amazon and write 1* reviews because they didn't realise it was erotica and the author is English and must have swallowed a lexicon, whatever the hell that is.
13. What advice would you give someone who wants to start off being a writer?
Read my book The Fifty Shades of Grey Phenomena – a two-hour writing tutorial condensing everything I learned studying three years at Cambridge.
14. If you hadn’t become a writer, what do you think you would be doing right now?
Fox hunting and arranging flowers in the country, I suppose. I would have married an older man, a rich chinless wonder, and had affairs with the gardener.
15. What would be the perfect Romantic getaway?
Mmm. Two years in Bali with the real life Tom, a new laptop, a batik bikini the color of the sea and a mute maid to come in and tidy up. I am so spoiled, I know.
Well now that we got the question and answer out of the way…..why don’t you tell us about your latest story you have out now?
Having talked incessantly about Bella, it is convenient that The Secret Life of Girls was my last published novel – the story of an 18 year old girl shortly after the death of her father. Her scheming mother remarries Simon Daviditz, a smarmy lawyer who secretly buys the manor house left in trust to Bella to pay off her father's debts. The betrayal cuts Bella to the core - the house is a part of her. She has nothing left - except she is beautiful, bold and unafraid to use sex to get revenge - as well as for her own pleasure.
"This is a work of erotic genius. I was gripped by this Lolita-type protagonist who must find her way with no help from her aloof mother and lustful stepfather. The author beautifully captures the atmosphere of the English countryside...boarding schools run by nuns, and what it's like to be a gorgeous girl searching for her sexual identity, artistic success (she aspires to being a pop star), and, ultimately, revenge on her mother and stepfather for their betrayals." 5* Katie Dylan, author of Cult of Beauty.
Excerpt from The Secret Life of Girls:
The First Time
During the night the planets had realigned and I was aware in a muddled way as I opened my eyes that I was entering a new world. There was just enough light seeping through the winter dawn for me to find my dressing gown. I pulled it on and thought of nothing but my footsteps on the frosty grass as I crossed the garden.
The sound of the van must have awoken me and when I entered the woodshed Mr Lawrence was leaning against the bench rolling a cigarette. Jake was sitting to one side, eyes glossy, his pink tongue lolling from his mouth. A paraffin stove made the air warm and heavy.
Mr Lawrence nodded and didn't speak. He lit the cigarette and I could see my shadow crossing the wall as I moved towards him. The dog was panting and it felt as if our breathing were synchronised, the air going swiftly in and out of my chest. Mr Lawrence looked me up and down, studying me as if I were one of the cuttings he had planted back in August. His dark eyes stared into my eyes as he pulled at the cord tied in a bow around my waist. The dressing gown fell from my shoulders. He gestured towards the buttons on my pyjamas and as my fingers went to work it felt as if someone else was undoing them.
My pyjama jacket slipped to the floor and Mr Lawrence spent a long time smoking and considering my breasts. He balanced the cigarette on the silver tin. There was a piece of tobacco stuck to his lip. He blew sideways and flicked it away. He licked his fingertips and gently ran them in circles around my nipples. He didn't pinch, he just kept turning in slow circles until they began to prickle and then he did squeeze, rolling them softly and expertly the way he rolled his cigarettes. My eyelids felt heavy and I sucked in breath. Jake was gazing up at me with those big glassy dog eyes, his tongue moving in and out of his wide mouth.
The sensation in my breasts was hypnotic. A slow calm flowed through me. It was like a drug. I was in a trance. Mr Lawrence gave a tug on my pyjama bottoms and I wriggled out of them. He leaned back and gazed at me like a judge at a flower show, my shapely limbs, my tiny waist, the neat triangle of pubic hair. He didn't say anything. He put his finger between my legs. He didn't push it in, but moved it lightly in a beckoning motion back and forth until my pussy leaked a few drops of dew on his fingertip. He took his hand away, rubbed his finger and thumb together as if checking the sap from a plant, then held his fingers to his nose.
Jake's panting had grown louder. Mr Lawrence leaned over to pat his head. Then he turned, took a firm grip on the back of my hair and bent me over the bench. My mind was blank. I gritted my teeth. Then, unexpectedly, Mr Lawrence smacked my bottom. Once, twice, then again, three hard smacks that made tears jerk into my eyes. I stood and turned towards him, panting like the dog. My body was damp with sweat and fear and something else, something that I would only understand much later. Mr Lawrence was unzipping his trousers. He bent his legs, gave a little jerk, and when he pulled out his penis I shuddered and held breath. He took me by the hair again and his long cock grazed my swollen lips as he forced me to my knees.
Mr Lawrence thrust forward. My lips parted. The head of his cock filled my mouth and I felt the strength leave my body as he drilled it in further. He kept his hand on the back of my neck, I clung to his legs and he eased my head back and forth, on and on, deeper and deeper, stretching the soft walls of my throat. Tears flowed over my cheeks. Mr Lawrence was jerking faster and faster. My head was spinning. I thought I was going to black out. Then he groaned and stopped. I tasted a speck of his semen and he withdrew, holding his cock like the garden hose as he sprayed me with his come, an unending stream that covered my face and wet my hair and dripped down my chin.
'Agh, agh, agh,' he gasped like he was in pain and the Labrador came to its feet, its big silly eyes staring at me as if it didn't know what to do.
My mouth was still open and Mr Lawrence slipped his cock back between my lips as if the last few seeds were a poison that needed to be drawn out. I sucked as hard as I could. Finally he pulled it out, bent his knees and tossed it into his underpants like a small animal being put back into a cage.
'Nice,' he said.
He turned, took his tobacco from the tin and continued to study me as he rolled a cigarette. His semen was running down my face. In my mouth was the taste of sour yoghurt that would stay there for many days. Jake took a step closer, his nose registering the strange scent. A glob of sperm dropped glistening to my chest and the dog licked it off with his big wet tongue.
Mr Lawrence smiled. 'Here now. Good boy,' he said, and stroked the dog's head.
My breasts were pale and cold in the dim light. My knees hurt from the rough floor. The sperm dried quickly, tightening on my face. Mr Lawrence lit his cigarette. 'You're your mother's daughter, all right,' he said, watching as I stood and dressed in the way that you might watch a monkey in the zoo, something charming and almost human.
Amazon.com - http://www.amazon.com/Secret-Life-Girls-Romance-ebook/dp/B008GO4E6I/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=8-1-spell&qid=1377610105
Amazon.co.uk - http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Secret-Life-Girls-ebook/dp/B008GO4E6I/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1377610573&sr=1-2&keywords=chloe+thurlow
Twitter - @chloethurlow1