Name:  Leigh Holland

Age: 44

Where are you from: I’m from Louisville, Kentucky, home of the Kentucky Derby. My family was originally from a holler called Stinking Creek near the Tennessee border. My great grandfather supported the family working the coal mine. They moved to Louisville when the coal mine shut down. My generation was the first to be born and raised in the city.

Fiona: Tell us your latest news?

I’m an avid reader and lover of books. I recently published my first book, “2042: An American 1984”, a dystopian novel, which can be found at Amazon at My Amazon Author page can be found at

I’ve recently given my blog “Leigh Holland Writes!” a makeover. Currently, I’m working on writing a paranormal mystery series. I also do a bit of free style writing when the mood strikes me and post it to my blog.

Fiona: When and why did you begin writing?

I’m an only child. My father was out of our lives by the time I was 8 years old. My mother worked very hard to take care of me. We lived near a lot of elderly folks so I grew up listening to WW2 stories. My family has a rich oral storytelling tradition. We didn’t just talk, we told stories about our lives and the events in them.

I was an introverted child, so when I wasn’t reading a book, I made up worlds and characters to entertain myself. I started writing when I was about twelve years old. I got a typewriter for my birthday that year. My first novella (never published) was “The Catriphian Saga: A Sci-Fi Epic”. It was horrible. I relished every second of writing it.

Fiona: When did you first consider yourself a writer?

My mother encouraged me in my writing. I had a few poems published in anthologies in childhood. I’ve always been writing something. I suppose I started considering myself a writer when I realized I had no dancing rhythm whatsoever and would never land a role in “Electric Bugaloo”.

Fiona: What inspired you to write your first book?

“2042: An American 1984” is my first published book. I am focusing on writing another book right now, but always have at least 6 projects going at any time. I enjoy writing across a variety of genres. But for my first book I wanted to write a dystopian novel that would show people what a future would look like if far right political ideologies in the United States were given free reign. People say, “I want to outlaw this”, or “I want to severely punish people for saying or doing that”. I’m concerned about what I see as a lack of compassion among fellow Americans and how deeply divided my country is becoming politically. Extremes are never the answer to our collective problems. We need to return to sanity and working across parties to accomplish our goals and solve our problems. The “sports team” approach to politics must end.

Fiona: Do you have a specific writing style?

I think my style changes over time. It’s evolving. Hopefully not into “Doomsday”.

Fiona: How did you come up with the title?

I thought, “If the Democrats continue to be utter wimps and fall apart like origami crafted by a hyperactive toddler, and if a far-right ideology were imposed on Americans, by what year would the society be fully transformed?” I figured 24 years seemed about right.

Fiona: Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?

Extremism caused some of the problems we face. Allowing ourselves to become extreme in response is not the answer. We are human beings capable of compassion and understanding for those who are different from us and those who disagree with us. We must remember our values, we must remember who we are.

Fiona: How much of the book is realistic and are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life?

It’s an imaginary dystopian future. However, it’s based on real political policy positions championed by high ranking government officials. Some of the experiences in the book that the characters go through were difficult for me to write. I had to talk to others and do research.

Fiona: What books have most influenced your life most? A mentor?

My mother always mentored me in my writing as a youngster. There really are too many books that have influenced me to list in one place. To name just a scant few- “Brave New World”, “Animal Farm”, “1984”, “Anna Karenina”, “The Iliad” and “The Odyssey”, “The Three Musketeers”, “The Count of Monte Cristo”, “Jane Eyre”, “A Tale of Two Cities”, “Native Son”, “The Outsiders”, everything in the vampire Lestat series by Anne Rice, the Kinsey Milhone series by Sue Grafton, Ed McBain’s crime novels, and many, many more.

Fiona: Are there any new authors that have grasped your interest and who is your favorite author and what is it that really strikes you about their work?

I’d have to say to take a look at my blog at . I post book reviews of things I read and enjoy regularly.

Fiona: Name one entity that you feel supported you outside of family members.

I have the best friends in the whole world.

Fiona: Do you see writing as a career?

That depends. Is a career supposed to pay you regularly? 😊

Fiona: If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your latest book?

After the 2nd revision, every time I’d go back through it, considering if I should change something else, I realized if I changed anything it wouldn’t say what I wanted it to say.

Fiona: Do you recall how your interest in writing originated?

My mother required us at the dinner table to engage in “intellectual repartee” time. She mostly talked about books she was reading. I found the stories in books fascinating and wanted to write stories too.

Fiona: Can you shar e a little of your current work with us?

Excerpt from “Shrieking Mandrakes” by Leigh Holland

Chapter One: The Sinner and the Savior


Blast. The cobblestone looks nice from up above it,

but when you’re lying on it, it’s just a bunch of jagged

little rocks. They don’t pierce as much as annoy me at the

moment. Does it have to be so damned cold? It’s as if the

stones suck up all the cold air and guard it like a precious

treasure. If heat rises, why is Hell supposedly lower than

this cobblestone? Ah, well, one must try to look on the

bright side, I always say. I may be wounded, but at least

I’m not lying naked, prone, and unconscious with my buttocks in the air. I am in full possession of my mental

faculties, such as they are, and it appears the Llamhigyn Y

Dwr intends to go back to its bog and leave me be. Of

course, I’m awfully tired. I may be bleeding. I feel a bit

nauseous and woozy. If I just lie here a bit perhaps I’ll start

to feel better. The difficult part, I imagine, will be avoiding

anyone noticing me while I rest here in front of this church

for a couple of days.

Speaking of which, there’s the priest, sweeping the

walk. Somehow, I think he’s going to notice me. Ouch, my head stings! Oh, no. Here he comes. I suppose I could turn

into a large aardvark with rabbit ears. That would definitelyscare away most human beings. But I don’t have enoughenergy left for such a feat.

The priest leaned closer to me, setting his broom

aside. He was about five feet, eleven inches tall; with kind

green eyes and dark hair. Kneeling next to me, he laid an

index finger tentatively on my neck to feel for a pulse. His

finger was warm. I couldn’t help it, I cooed.

“There, there, little bird,” he told me in Irish Gaelic,

“I’ll take care of you.”

Here in Wales, it seemed they preferred pork and

onions. I was happy to have not landed in France. There, I

would most assuredly have been eaten. I briefly worried

that he may eat me yet, as he raced back into the rectory.

My worries proved unfounded when he returned with a

warm blanket. Had I the capacity for human speech at the

time, I would have praised the priest’s god.

It had been a long, hard journey hence, and my goal

remained unaccomplished. Yet I knew that if I stubbornly

tried to remain awake till I healed, I would recover myhealth far too slowly and thereby would my cause be lost

forever. His strong yet cautious hands laid me with care

upon his bed. He fashioned the woolen blanket into a nest

shape, then swaddled me in another piece of warm cloth,

laying me within the nest. Gently, he began washing and

tending my wounds. Suddenly, I didn’t want to sleep. I

feared his reaction to what would happen shortly after. I

began squawking wildly in an effort to remain alert.

Humming an old Irish tune, he soothed me. In spite of

myself, I began slipping into unconsciousness.

Groggily, I awoke to the sound of a dumbfounded,

startled priest. Feeling the pain course through my upper

arm, I groaned. I wondered which form I had taken this

time as I had slept off some of my injuries. Glancing down,

I saw two long, human legs…make that three. A small

brown cloth lay across my right hip. I positioned it to cover

that “third leg”. I almost chuckled, but it hurt to smile. A

pain was forming in my head, a sort of dull but persistent

thudding behind my temples. Annoying.

“Pardon me, have you been listening to a word I’ve

said?!” The irate and amazed priest demanded. Loudly. In

broken Welsh.

I held up a halting hand. “Please, good man,” I

asked in a small, whispering voice, “my head is aching all

the more as you scream at me. Could you yell excitedly in a

tiny whisper perhaps?” I looked about the room. There was

a cask of something on the writing desk next to the quill

and ink. Motioning to it, I asked, “That wouldn’t happen to


He moved quickly to retrieve the flask of liquid.

“That’s not for you.”

He stood still and ever so thankfully quiet as he

gathered his thoughts and stared at me. I looked just past

and around him at my reflection in the mirror. The glass

was darkened and the room dimly lit; not at all like home

where everything was bright, clear, and sparkly. I liked

sparklies. A lot. I could make out much of my reflection.

What a sight I was! No wonder he couldn’t stop making

such a fuss. My skin was lovely and pale, as usual (it was

hard not to just rub myself all over and make wild noises). I

was tall, slender, and very male. My long mane of wavy

black locks cascaded down my back and into my face.

Brushing them out of the way, I saw that I had large,

floppy, black furred bunny ears protruding from my head.

My dark violet eyes held deeper mysteries for those who

dared. No wonder he sounded so bloody loud when he

screamed. I was so gorgeous, sometimes I scared myself.

“What are you?” he asked in a small voice. “Are

you demon? Angel? Ghost?”

I rolled my eyes and sighed. This was exactly why I

hated relying on humans for aid. “Look,” I replied, “I’m no

demon. And I’m surely no angel. I might be a ghost,


He seemed confused. Then he turned pale as a

summer’s day cloud and jumped back, nearly tripping over

his long robes.

“Oh,” I said, giggling in realization, “don’t worry

about that. When I’m wounded or sleeping, my body parts

often just change shape of their own accord. By the way, I

wanted to thank you for tending to my wounds earlier

today. You may not realize it, but you helped me a great

deal. I owe you a great boon for that.”

I wanted to grab my words from the air before they

reached his ears, but sadly, sound traveled faster than I did.

I inwardly cursed myself for having said them. Now I was

bound to repay my debt. Nothing was worse for my kind

than having to actually come by something honestly.

Honesty just wasn’t in our nature. Indeed, the more lies we

told, the greater our powers grew. We gained our health

and power back at an exaggerated rate when the lies were

ridiculous and humans believed them anyway. The absolute best was when the humans started telling our stories as if they were true; as if they were their stories to begin with. Ah, the magic that could be tapped then! Maybe I’d get lucky and he wasn’t paying attention to anything I said.

“Really?” he asked. “What sorts of things can you


Damn it. Now my head was really pounding. This

wasn’t fun anymore. “Unfortunately, I’m in no state to do

anything. My battle with the Llamhigyn Y Dwr didn’t end

so well.”

“The what?!”

“Never mind.” I replied, examining my wounds.

He’d done an excellent job patching me up when I’d been a

bird. Now the wounds were solely internal. But they

needed more time to heal. I couldn’t waste my magic on

doing parlor tricks for a priest. I needed to gather my

strength. “Suffice it to say, I’m of no use to you while I’m

still healing. Why, what is it you want of me?”

I bit my own tongue for having asked. It hurt. I

whimpered and whined a bit into a nearby pillow.

“Are you alright?” he asked, careful not to move too

close. I could smell his trepidation. I didn’t blame him. If

the shoe were on the other foot, it probably wouldn’t fit.

He’s stockier and has bigger feet than I do.

Sitting up, I smiled and answered, “Sure. I’m fine.

Look, I don’t want to trouble you any further.” I felt a jolt

of power return to me as I fibbed to him. “So, loan me

some clothes, and I’ll be out of your way.”

He kept staring at my ears. I can’t be certain but I

think they’d taken on a hooded asp sort of shape. They’re

cheeky like that at times.

“What?!” I said, exasperated. “By Manogan, you’d

think you’ve never seen ears before.”

Suddenly, wordlessly, the knave left the room and

locked and barred the door. I glanced around the candlelit

room. No windows. Blast it all! I was trapped, exactly

where I wanted to be. Things were working out perfectly. I

decided to relax on the priest’s comfy bed, and practice

humming that tune of his. Catchy, that.

When I awoke the next day, there was a new candle

burning on the plain wooden desk in the small, sparsely

adorned room. A pile of clothing lay in the desk chair that

sat facing me. Two things occurred to me as I dressed.

One- he had been in here, watching me sleep, sitting in this

very chair. This thought had a number of sub-thoughts

associated with it, including but not limited to what was he

thinking about as he stared at me, and the less popular mynuts are freezing. Two- thank Manogan; he left me

attractive, decent fitting clothing. I was outfitted in a new

black tunic, black leggings, a black leather belt, a deep

forest green vest, and a pair of simple leather boots.

Enjoying myself, I began flexing muscles and admiring my

tight glutes.

“Yes, you’re a gorgeous man, aren’t you?” I said to

my reflection.

“Don’t be daft.” he replied, rolling his eyes. I hated

it when he answered me. He was such a spoil sport. No fun

at parties whatsoever.

The door creaked open and I stepped a few paces

back, standing to the far side of the room. The priest

peaked in around the edge of the heavy wooden door. He

gawked at me a few moments, and then entered the room,

shutting the door behind him.

“I know what you are.” he told me from across the


He was keeping more than a safe distance from me.

I frowned. “We’re really going to have to work on your

interpersonal skills.” I told him from my side of the room.

Sighing, I asked, “What is it you think I am now?”

He looked me up and down. Well, two could play

that game. I looked him up and down, sizing him up as

well. Tall, dark, and handsome. That about described us

both, though I honestly think the overused phrase failed to

describe my amazing looks adequately. If we were dating

the same girl, she’d dump him for me. A bunny ear flopped

forward onto my eye. It pulled itself back up into an

upright, alert position on my head. Okay, maybe she

wouldn’t dump him for me after all. He was stockier and

stronger physically than I, this was true. He could probably

take me down in a physical brawl, were I the sort to not

cheat. At the moment, I was a bit short on magical power,

so I decided it would be best to avoid any scuffles with

holy men.

“Ha!” I exclaimed, “We wouldn’t be dating the

same girl, because you’re a priest!”

His brow furrowed in confusion at my seemingly

unconnected proclamation. Shaking his head, he said,

“You’re supernatural. A Sidhe.”

I flashed a dazzling smile. “Worked that one out all

by your lonesome, did you? I’m not a Sidhe, that’s as Irish

as you are and not quite accurate, really. Now, look, speak

Welsh. We are in Wales, you know, and both Manogan and

your god are surely aware how badly you need the practice.

I’m a TwylethTeg.”

“You’re what the locals call a pwca.”

I strode over to him and extended my hand. He

recoiled nervously. “Please,” he said, “stay back.”

I did as he asked, but insisted, “I mean you no


He calmed himself as I took a couple of steps back.

Then he told me, “My grandmother always talked about

your kind, but I never believed her. I mean, I always

thought the stories were just-”

“Blarney.” I finished for him.

“Yes.” he admitted. “But it seems you’re real


He very slowly and cautiously reached out a hand to

touch my arm, to make certain I wasn’t just some figment

of his addled imagination. I took the opportunity to grasp

his hand in mine and greet him properly.

“It’s nice to meet you.” I said. “What’s your


Once he realized I wasn’t going to turn into a

hideous beast and devour him, he relaxed. He replied,

“Muircheartach Mac Cuindess. It’s nice to meet you, too. I

have so many questions-”

“Oh, no.” I remarked. “I think I’ll just have to call

you Kieran.”

“But my name is-”

“A tad bit difficult for your Welsh parishioners to

pronounce, and impossible to spell. Well, presuming any of them were literate.” I finished for him merrily. “You’ll always be Kieran McCandless to me.”

“My name is Muircheartach.” He insisted. He sat in

the desk chair, and I sat at the edge of his bed. He asked,

“What’s your name?”

My eyes lit up like a new day and I replied in my best evil dwarf voice, “You have three nights to guess my name. If you can’t, then I’ll be back for your baby, ladle in


“What on earth are you talking about?” he

demanded. “I don’t have a baby.”

“Really, Kieran,” I answered, “Haven’t you ever

heard the story of Rumpelstiltskin? I could tell it to you, if

you like. It’s a true story, or so I’ve been told by the

German prince who told it to me.”

“You’re not going to tell me your name, are you?”

“Of course not. Names have power, you know. I’m

absolutely shocked at the way you mortals throw yours

about so carelessly.” I told him. “Indeed, when mortals die,

all you have are your names. The scavengers come and

pick apart everything else you had. But your name- you’d

have to be really unpopular for them to blatantly pick that

apart once you’re no more. Your names can echo through

eternity, in stories told of you.”

“If names are important because of stories told

about them, why won’t you tell me your name?” he

queried. “Don’t you want to be remembered forever?”

“Unlike you, I won’t die. Well, unless something

supernatural like me surprises me and kills me.” I rubbed

my sore arm, recalling the dreadful encounter with the

Llamhigyn Y Dwr. It was still out there, waiting for another

chance. I could feel it. “Even then, I’ll never die.” I

explained. “I’m cursed, you see.”

He didn’t see. “What do you mean?”

My mood had turned serious and somber. I pouted,

lying back on the bed, propped up by Kieran’s exquisite

down pillows. “I have lived a number of lifetimes. My soul

is caught up in a pattern; a cycle of reincarnation, from

which there is no escape. And what’s worse, I remember

things from them as if they were my own memories, as if

they happened in this life.”

He considered my words. “I don’t believe in


“Of course you don’t, silly. And you don’t believe

in the old legends, such as me, either. You’re a Catholic

priest.” I answered. “Really, Kieran, am I going to have to

teach you who you are?” My smile faded, as I

contemplated, “That’s the other part of the Tynghedau; the

curse. Everyone else reincarnates, too, but I’m the only one

who remembers anything.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you don’t want your

name to live forever in stories told about you.” he said.

“I’m not going to tell you my name.” I stated

simply, refusing to discuss the issue of my magical true

name any further.

“Oh, no.” he remarked, shrugging. “I think I’ll just

have to call you Riordan.”

I felt a tear come to my eye, but choked back my

emotions. No one had ever given me a nickname before.

Most people just called me “annoying bastard”. I agreed,

“Riordan it is, then.”

Just when I thought we were bonding, Kieran

remarked, “They say if you capture a Sidhe- I mean, a

TwylethTeg- that it will owe you three wishes.”

“That’s a genie.” I corrected him. “But even that’s

not entirely true. Genies will kill you if they get the chance,

and will make quick their escape. They don’t give a fig

about mortal wishes. Why, do you want a genie?”

“Not really.” he said. “Three wishes would’ve been


“Ah, but at what risk?”

“Are you saying you’re risky?”

“You really don’t pay attention, do you?” I said. “No wonder you don’t believe in anything your grandma

told you about. You have no idea what she said. You never

listened! I’m saying trucking with genies to gain three

wishes is very risky business.”

Kieran leaned forward, placing his elbow on his

knee and his hand on his chin, deep in thought. Good. He

was finally going to use that brain for something.

“I have to admit I’m irritated with you at the

moment.” I informed him. “You treat me like I’m a thing

you can control and demand things from. I have feelings,

dreams, wishes of my own, you know.”

Immediately, he looked horrified and regretful. “I’m

sorry, Riordan. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying

to figure out…” he paused, then appeared as if hope had

fled from him, and put his head in his hands. “Oh, never


At this rate, he’d be setting me free in a matter of

minutes. Then who would call me “Riordan”?

“Wimp.” I insulted him.

“What?” he looked up at me, surprised.

“I said, you’re a wimp. A totally impotent,

powerless little man who is utterly incapable of taking

charge of his life, much less accomplishing anything

beyond what’s expected of him by others.”

Kieran pouted. His mouth was lovely when he

pouted. I bet if he did that, any girl we both dated would

dump me for him in an instant. Oh, wait. We already

established he was a priest. I kept forgetting, in spite of the

long black dress and white collar. On him, it looked more

like a costume than a calling.

He replied, “You’re right.”

This was going to be more work than I previously

imagined. I hated work. Blast it all. “Kieran, what are you

trying to figure out? I may not be a genie, but maybe I can

help in some way.”

Something suddenly occurred to him. His eyes grew

wider and his eyebrows shot up. “I remember my granny

said there were two types of TwylethTeg. The good kind

and the dark kind. Which kind are you?”

I put a finger to my chin thoughtfully. “Kieran,

could you please scoot your chair just a bit to your left?”

He scooted over. Ah, that was better. I posed

pensively and checked out my reflection in the mirror. Dark

and brooding really worked for me in this form. Kieran

looked behind himself. Seeing that I was preening over

myself, he sighed heavily.

“If I said I was the dark kind, what would you do?”

“Not trust you.”

“And if I said I was the good kind?”

He realized his dilemma. “Still not trust you. But at

least I’d feel more comfortable sleeping in the same house

with you.”

“You know,” I stated, “the dark ones are not

necessarily bad. They just use different methods to achieve

their goals than the so-called good ones do.” I enjoyed the

panicked expression on Kieran’s face for a moment, then

laughed and said, “I’m the good kind, of course. I really

had you going for a minute there, didn’t I?”

Kieran laughed nervously. “Yes, you sure did.” The

word ‘naïve’ sprung to mind.

“Come on, then,” I insisted, “what’s troubling


Kieran eyed me suspiciously. “How stupid do you

think I am?”

I had a feeling he didn’t want an honest answer, so I

didn’t give him one. “You’re not stupid at all.”

“You’re one of the dark sort.”

“How’d you figure it out?”

“Good never defends or excuses evil, it fights it.”

“Who said the dark ones were evil?” I asked. See,

humans are stupid. “What makes you think the light ones

are morally superior? If you ask me, we’re all bad when

viewed through your narrow lens of morality.”

He nodded in agreement. His expression had turned

entirely too serious and grim for my taste. “I’m keeping

you here.” Kieran informed me.

“My, aren’t we the judgmental prick?” The nerve.

“You’re just afraid of me, afraid of anything different, or

that challenges you and your worldview. After all, what

have I ever done to make you believe I’m evil?”

“I’m keeping you here,” he explained, “until such

time as I’m sure you’re not a danger to mankind.”

Offended, I bowed my head slightly. Who did he

think he was? No mere mortal could force me to do

anything I didn’t want to do. Who did he think he wasdealing with? I realized with instant regret that I must’ve

been subconsciously transforming again, because the

expression on Kieran’s face was one of fear as he stood and

backpedaled towards the door. In the mirror, I saw that my

eyes had become deep red and cat-like, my skin had

changed to a light violet shade that deepened the longer I

was angry, and my ears were twisting and hardening into

horns. I felt my teeth’s edges sharpening.

Jumping to my feet, I aimed to calm myself. “No!” I

instructed my body, as I closed my eyes and began

breathing deeply to relax.

When I opened my eyes again to gaze upon my

reflection, I had returned to my previous form, floppy

bunny ears and all. I smiled at myself, and then turned to

face the shaken Kieran. For a long minute, neither of us

spoke. We merely took in each other, trying to determine if

the other were a threat. I decided he was mostly harmless.

After all, he was wearing a dress.

“Kieran-” I began to say, but he merely left the

room, locking me in once more.


Fiona: Is there anything you find particularly challenging in your writing?

Yes, finding time to write uninterrupted. Wanting to work on one project but another beckons to me has also been an issue for me.

Fiona: Do you have to travel much concerning your book(s)?

Only in my imagination.

Fiona: Who designed the covers?

An artist known as Fantasia at Amazing artist, great to work with. Reasonable prices.

Fiona: What was the hardest part of writing your book?

Honestly, there’s a torture scene that was hard to write. I kept getting nauseous just thinking about how that must feel. The rest of the book seemed to flow along well.

Fiona: Did you learn anything from writing your book and what was it?

I learned it was easier to finish the project if I had a thorough outline before I started writing. I enjoy free style writing best, but the outline kept things consistent and on track.

Fiona: If any of your books was made into a film who would you like to play the lead?

Chloe Grace Moretz as Temperance. As Rachel, maybe Emma Stone.

Fiona: Do you have any advice for other writers?

Don’t do it for money or fame, do it for love. Don’t get stressed out about the process of writing. It must be your joyful passion.

Fiona: Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?

Thank you for all the support. I appreciate you all! I hope you enjoyed my first novel. I hope you’ll check in at my blog to read more of my reviews, writing tips, and “Shrieking Mandrakes”. Keep an eye out in the next few months for my next book, “Things of the Day”, a paranormal mystery.

Fiona: What book are you reading now?

I’m reading two books, “Murder in Absentia” by Assaph Mehr and “As Wings Unfurl” by Arthur M. Doweyko.

Fiona: Do you remember the first book you read?

Yes, it was an old copy of the King James Bible. That’s how my great grandmother taught me to read when I was 4 years old.

Fiona: What makes you laugh/cry?

I love satire, witty one liners, and jokes with a surprise punchline. I cry when a character I love dies or suffers in a book/movie.

Fiona: Is there one person past or present you would meet and why?

If I say Doctor Who, does he count as one person past or present? Who wouldn’t want to meet the Doctor!

Fiona: What do you want written on your head stone and why?

“Nothing’s Ever Right.” It’s very true. Also, my dad wanted it on his tombstone as it was uttered by him daily. But he was cremated, ironically proving his point.

Fiona: Other than writing do you have any hobbies?

Reading. I like making mosaic tile art. I love the St. James Art Fair we have here annually in Louisville and Irish Fest. I’m into video games and RPGs with friends. I like attending sci-fi and fandom conventions when they come to town.

Fiona: What TV shows/films do you enjoy watching?

I love suspense, psychological thrillers, sci-fi, fantasy, mysteries, action/adventure, 80’s nostalgia. Things I’ve watched recently include “13 Reasons Why”, “Split”, “Passengers”, “Doctor Strange”, “The Autopsy of Jane Doe”, “The Babadook”, and I can’t wait for the next season of “Stranger Things” on Netflix.

Fiona: Favorite foods / Colors/ Music

Spaghetti. Lasagna. I love Italian food. My favorite colors are red, peach, and coral. I love most musical genres, not into rap though. My current writing playlist includes Lady Gaga, Halsey, Lindsey Stirling, Melanie Martinez, the Beatles, Panic at the Disco, and David Bowie.

Fiona: If you were not a writer what else would you like to have done?

By night, I’m Bloggy, a book loving superhero, but by day I’m an intrepid Social Worker.  

Fiona: Do you have a blog/website? If so what is it?

Blog: Leigh Holland Writes!