Pink Ice Creams

Intent on fixing her broken marriage and the alcohol-fuelled catastrophe that is her life, Kay Harris arrives at her grim and grey holiday let, ready to lay to rest the tragedy that has governed her entire adulthood – the disappearance of her little brother, Adam.

But the road to recovery is pitted with the pot-holes of her own poor choices, and it isn’t long before Kay is forced to accept that maybe she doesn’t deserve the retribution she seeks. Will the intervention of strangers help her find the answers she needs to move on from her past, or will she always be stuck on the hard shoulder with no clear view ahead and a glove box full of empties?

Pink Ice Creams is a tale of loss, self-destruction, and clinging on to the scraps of the long-lost when everyone else has given up hope.

Author Bio

Jo Woolaston lives in Leicestershire, England with her extreme noise-making husband and two lovely sons. She tries to avoid housework and getting a ‘proper job’ by just writing stuff instead – silly verse, screenplays, shopping lists…

This sometimes works in her favour (she did well in her MA in TV Scriptwriting, gaining a Best Student award in Media and Journalism – and has had a few plays produced – that kind of thing) but mostly it just results in chronic insomnia and desperate tears of frustration. Pink Ice Creams is her first novel, she hopes you liked it.

Social Media Links –

Writer page Jo Woolaston –

Twitter @JoWoolaston

Guest Blog

Pink Ice Creams – Jo Woolaston

My writer’s journey.
I have never been that lucky sort of person who always knew what they wanted to
do in life. Even now, when sending out spec scripts and submission letters, with a ‘please
please please let this be the one that lands on the right desk’ prayer sent skywards (and
down too –I’m not picking sides) I am still eyeing up empty garages thinking I should set up a
furniture restoration business or wondering what I would look like in a fire-fighters uniform.
This mentality has not helped me in my quest to become published (and is safer than
blaming the kids – should they read this.) And so I need to admit something. The first few
pages of Pink Ice Creams was written erm… 1… 2…15 years ago.
But it got filed. It was a pre-kids, pre-marriage, post-break-up rant that was little
more than a cathartic exercise, and after I’d got it out of my system it was put in a drawer
(or more likely I went down the pub and it fell down the back of the sofa) where it stayed
alongside other musings, poems, short stories, short films, long films that had built up,
secretly, over time – all sad and neglected in the dusty dark.
So what changed? I hit 38. Not exactly a milestone but a kick in the guts that one was
approaching and my peers were successfully juggling careers and motherhood, making
something of themselves – not dithering in a pool of why didn’t I’s or could’ve beens. I
needed to take a chance on something, but I also knew I needed two other things first –
total commitment to a single project, and validation. I dug out my writing. Months earlier I
had met a woman – whose story had struck a chord with a younger me –and I knew I
wanted to write a stop to her continuing sorry tale. I had a start of a few pages somewhere
that resonated, so I got my head down and got to work.
The second part seemed a million miles away – someone to tell me that my writing
was good enough to continue with. I had a few scripts, I’d shown them to a few clever
friends, they’d made some agreeable noises. I polished the scripts and applied to start a
Masters degree in TV Scriptwriting at De Montfort University, Leicester – a unique and
respected course within the industry. I was accepted…
…and I got Top Marks. Two years, six scripts later I had my Distinction and somehow
managed to earn a ‘Best Student Award in Film, Media and Journalism’ in the meantime and
I didn’t even flinch at turning 40 half way through it all. But it wasn’t until afterwards, when I
was introduced to another writer – a proper bona fide one –with the words ‘This is Jo, she’s
a writer. A good one’ that I felt I had the validation I had sought. The gamble had paid off,
and an invitation from the BBC was sitting in my inbox…
But what of Pink Ice Creams? By this time it had been re-drafted, pulled apart,
stitched back together and it was finished. And then it was re-drafted again. And again. Re-
titled, and then re-re-titled. At some point, I knew I had to stop tinkering with it and just get
it published, be proud of what I’d achieved and show it to the world. And so… I built the kids
a tree house. Of course.

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