Well, that's a bit dramatic but it's still a fact. Facebook suspended my Incy Black account and insisted I provide my 'legal' name with a demand for evidence (passport ID etc), with which I duly complied to unlock my account. Hence, I'm now forced to comment as Lindsey Hughes, something I view as a gross violation of the right to be who I want to be.

My friends know me as Incy Black. That is who I am. On-LIne.

Off-line, I am known as Mum/Mummy/Ma by my children, and Lindsey Hughes by employers. Neither party necessarily wishes to be associated with Incy Black or the books I write, anymore than they would wish to know my cup size or colour of my knickers. I did not adopt a pen name for want of secrecy but more out of respect... A little distance can be healthy, not for me, but for them. I write about sick-freak killers, hot heroes (with questionable morals) who bed feisty heroines, I write about damaged people... Who the hell would want that as an association or endorsement?  My kids certainly don't. 

Respect, Facebook, show a little! Monitor content not names, because it is abusive content that hurts and offends and should be guarded against, not the use of pseudonyms. You employ sufficient brain-power to track those who offend back to their 'legal' identity, so write an algorithm for that and sanction accordingly, rather than stooping to bullying under the guise of 'integrity'. Incidentally, I see little integrity in making your complaint procedure so damn difficult to access. Provide a email which it doesn't take 20 minutes to find...and respond. Please, please respond! 

I don't have any objection to you leveraging ad revenue, Facebook, we all have to make a living, but let's not kid ourselves as to who is the bigger pretender here. You or me.

A good number of writers/authors could be caught in this identity net but don't panic yet. Think of the fun we shall have when we hold a Facebook party to celebrate our outing.

Final score in the integrity stakes.... FACEBOOK: 0   INDIVIDUALS: (Sorry, no one can count that high)

On a quest to make amends for a long-ago indiscretion, Honor unexpectedly discovers the one thing she’s been missing in her life.

Honor Quirk arrives in Ireland excited—and a bit anxious—about meeting up with the estranged family of her late great-grandmother. The welcome from the residents of Robinhill Farm, Dermot and Bryan, is confusing and far from comforting. One is warm, the other aggressive. The outwardly antagonistic Bryan makes it very clear he doesn't want her there, branding her a gold digger.

Dermot, on the other hand, is delighted to meet her.

But Honor is no pushover and stands up to Bryan, letting him know that his bad attitude and trail of baggage have nothing to do with her. Despite their confrontational and hostile relationship, an undeniable attraction to each other creeps insidiously into the house on Robinhill Farm. They both desperately try to stifle the sparks, but living under the same roof makes it impossible. Unable to cope with the turmoil of living with Bryan, Honor runs away, straight into the arms of a charming newfound friend, Sean, who offers her a home—and love.

Shattered, Bryan finally takes control of his irrational belief that all women are evil, and fights to bring back the woman he loves. But is it too late?

“Em, Honor.” He cleared his throat. “My guess is you’re wonderin’ why it is that I’ve turned up here.”

Her hand, holding a spoonful of porridge, was midway from the bowl to her mouth. “Course I am. Surely it’s not just a coincidence.” She hadn’t meant her words to come out all snarky, but they did. She’d grown accustomed to the verbal battles with Bryan, and now it was second nature for her to be ready with a barbed retort even when, on rare occasions such as this, there was no need. “Sorry…I didn’t sleep well.”

She felt foolish and lowered her eyes.

“Ah, I don’t blame ye for hatin’ me. I’ve been a total jerk.” He reached out and placed his hand on hers. “I’ve come here to…apologize. I’m truly sorry for the way I’ve behaved.”

She felt her eyes widen as she looked at him, and something about the tone in his voice made her heart melt—just a fraction—well, maybe just soften slightly. Here he was, her nemesis, her enemy, her cousin who was always so…angry. And he was apologizing? For some ludicrous reason, a surge of affection for this grizzly, difficult man, washed through her.

“Bryan, I…”

“No!” He squeezed her hand. “I’ve been bullish and horrible, and here you are still mourning the recent loss of your Nan. I’ve been a right bastard, Honor, and I’m very sorry.”

That was it. Suddenly her eyes misted over, and she blinked, hoping he hadn’t noticed her unbidden show of emotion. The flame of embarrassment heated up her cheeks. For a moment she thought this man before her must be an imposter. It didn’t even sound like Bryan. This man’s voice was warm and—dare she say—kind.

A laugh, one that sounded like a mixture of a blub and a laugh, burst out from her. Shocked, she didn’t know what to say. “OK, whoever you are. What have you done with the real Bryan?”

His face transformed into that of a handsome man, and the smile that lit up his eyes adorned his mouth as he tilted his head slightly to one side. “Indeed, it is I, your ladyship, humbly begging your forgiveness.”

1:  I won’t travel by boat (not canoe, not pedalo, not luxury liner), the mere thought of doing so, brings me out in hives. Also, I don’t do tunnels or caves. Crossing bridges sends me into near cardiac arrest. 

 2: Whenever journeying across this fine land we call the UK, I’m constantly on the scout for the best possible place in which to hold up come the zombie apocalypse.  I’ve got my eye on Anglesey, yes, the entire island—inhabitants, please start your evacuation now—though I’m not sure how I’d get there given my aversion to bridges.  (Adds TNT to survival list…that bridge must go)

4. My maiden name was Schmidt-Weichert (most called me Smith-Wicket).

5. Books I’ve written (so far) Hard to Forget and Hard to Hold, and I’m currently inking (bleeding) Hard to Chase. Yes, blatant promo—sorry.

6.  One of the first 'real' stories I ever wrote—must have been about 11 years old—was about a man-servant named Surprise.  All I remember is, he foolishly baked himself into a cake and then complained bitterly when he was eaten. His nose was the cherry on the top. To this day I remain scarred by the drowning in red ink I received from my teacher. The assignment required that I write about the biggest surprise in my life (so boring I refused to conform, and paid the price with a tedious re-write).

7.  I don’t want to grow old gracefully. I want to grow old disgracefully.

Now, mission complete, I nominate the following bloggers:

Dilys J Carnie 

JM Stewart 

Tracey Rogers 

Aurelia B Rowl 

Noelle Clark   The lovely Noelle will be guesting at Into the Black on Thursday

Susanne Bellamy 

Jane Hunt