Marian Smith
2025/26
Marian Smith, shortlisted writer
My name is Marian Smith. I live in a little village in Cheshire by the banks of the Trent and Mersey Canal, with my husband, who is a domestic god (I write, he feeds me). I started writing over twenty years ago, but I was only able to take it up seriously when I retired from my job in 2018.
I began with performance poetry before turning to fiction. I wrote a short story set in the afterlife, but when I got to the end I just kept writing and, 80,000 words later, the short story turned into A Beginner’s Guide to the Afterlife.
After some helpful feedback following longlisting for the Cheshire Novel Prize, I reworked my novel and submitted it to the Ascent Novel Prize. I’m secretary of Vale Royal Writers, my writing family, a group which supports and encourages local writers, whether by sharing advice, giving feedback or running workshops. I’m working on my second novel, a murder mystery set in the Lake District.
What is your shortlisted novel about?
My novel follows George Bradshaw who, having died, realises that his problems are only just beginning. Three weeks before his own death he accidentally killed Ray, the handsome local butcher whom George suspected was having an affair with his wife Laura. Which means that Ray is also in the afterlife. And he’s very angry.
When George discovers that Laura believes Ray committed suicide because she ended their relationship, he knows he has to find a way to reach her and tell her the truth, whatever the consequences.
The only people who can help him are a soldier who was killed in the Blitz in 1941 and a dead MI5 operative.
But there are rules in the afterlife. Ray’s death must be paid for and time is running out.
A Beginner’s Guide to the Afterlife charts George’s turbulent voyage of personal discovery, while exploring the consequences of living in a society where the dead from every era live side by side, and where eternity, with all its endless possibilities, beckons.
What has helped you improve as a writer?
I am learning my craft all the time. Reading is a great aid to writing. I have been a member of Jericho Writers since 2020. I have attended several Arvon courses and the Cheshire Novel Prize summer school.
I am now in a critique group with fellow Cheshire Novel Prize long listers and short listers. We exchange chapters and give and receive feedback. I have learned so much from the advice and input I am receiving from my fellow writers.
What advice would you give to someone who is considering entering Ascent Novel Prize?
Don’t hesitate – just do it. For a very modest fee, the top 100 will receive professional feedback and that is gold dust.
It is impossible to be objective about your own writing. Ask as many people as you can to read your first 3000 words, your synopsis and your pitch. Writing a novel is a marathon, not a sprint. Keep going and don’t give up.
Opening Pages
Chapter 1
Saturday 25th December 2010
The waiting room smells of antiseptic, dried blood and stale beer. I have a splitting headache and a twelve-inch gash in my right thigh that hurts like hell.
There must be thirty or forty people here. Most are silent, staring vacantly into space, but I can hear muffled weeping somewhere near the back of the room. A radio is playing ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, which strikes me as insensitive because no one here wants to be reminded it’s Christmas Day.
The guy to my right is wearing a hospital gown and his face is the colour of wet putty. He’s holding a yellow ticket. So is the woman next to him and everyone in the row behind. Why have they got yellow tickets and I’ve got a pink one? I’m about to ask him what it means when someone calls my name. A man in a white coat with a clipboard says “Ticket”. As I hand it to him, he looks at me with one eyebrow raised and nods towards an open door.
I limp into a brightly lit office and sit down. It’s an old-fashioned sort of room; the air is heavy with furniture polish and cigars, the walls lined from floor to ceiling with leather bound books. An old man in an ill-fitting navy suit is sitting in a leather chair behind an enormous oak desk. His thinning hair is plastered across his head and he has a scrawny neck like a plucked turkey.
He rummages through a pile of paperwork and picks out the only pink folder amongst a stack of yellow ones. He opens it and yawns, clicking a ballpoint pen as it hovers over the first page. He doesn’t look up. Eventually he says, in a voice thick with tobacco, “George William Bradshaw.”
It’s not a question so I say nothing.
“Can you confirm your date of death?”
“Yesterday I think.”
“Correct. 24th December 2010.”
He ticks a box.
“Cause of death?”
“I’m afraid I can’t remember.”
He looks up from the folder and sighs. “Well, Mr Bradshaw, it appears that you drank a large quantity of alcohol and tried to cycle home. Does that give you a clue?”
No way. This isn’t my death. I want something dignified… heroic even. Not this. I’m shaking my head, pushing this unwelcome truth away. The man responds with a slow repetitive nod. He yawns again, waiting while the bad news sinks in.
I whisper, “What happens now?”
“Well, I give you your welcome pack—”
“Is this a joke?” I cut in.
He ignores me and continues.
“Your welcome pack, which explains the set-up here. It also tells you facts about your life of which you are unaware.”
He’s waiting for me to speak, like he must have waited for countless others before me. I say, “What sort of facts?”
He scans down the list in front of him. “Well, there’s a lot of trivia. For example, you have read 623 books, watched 1,614 films and marked 5,672 English essays. You have donated 23 pints of blood, consumed 7,421 pints of beer, 1,348 portions of chips, 12 flies, five spiders and four maggots.”
He looks up with a self-satisfied smile.
“But” he continues, “there’s important stuff too. Oh yes. On the 23rd December 1979, two weeks after passing your driving test, you narrowly missed a pedestrian on a zebra crossing in Leeds. That was the Yorkshire Ripper.”
There’s a tone of accusation in his voice and I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. He closes the folder and pushes it across the desk towards me. Reaching behind into a cardboard box full of thick paperback books, he pulls one out and puts it on top of the folder. The shiny cover says Answers to Absolutely Every Question. He sees the dubious expression on my face.
“Yes, it’s all there. President Kennedy, Lord Lucan, Roswell, the Margaret Thatcher Love Triangle.”
If he wants a reaction he’s out of luck because, as much as I want to get my hands on this book, I’m not in the mood to indulge him. He leans back in his chair and looks at his watch. Taking this as a sign the interview is over, I stand and say, “Where do I go now?”
“We are not finished yet, Mr Bradshaw.”
I sit down and he continues. “First things first; is there anything you want to ask me?”
Just to make sure, I say “So you know everything about my life?"
He shrugs. “More or less.”
My head is full of questions, like ‘will Laura miss me?’ though I’m not sure I want to know the answer to that. But there is one question that’s bigger than all the others. I say, “Laura and Ray the butcher – did they, or didn’t they?”
“Would that be Ray the butcher who died after being locked in his walk-in freezer?”
I nod and try not to look shifty.
With a smile that radiates smugness, he says, “No, they didn’t.”
“Shit.”
“Shit indeed,” he says, and adds with more than a hint of satisfaction, “and Ray the butcher is so looking forward to seeing you.”