Diane Foster
Bio
I’m a professional writer, proofreader, and all-round online entrepreneur, UK. I’m married to a rock star who had his long-awaited liver transplant in August 2025.
When not working, you’ll find me with a glass of wine, immersed in poetry.
Stories (235)
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An Autumnal Reverie on The Essex Serpent
At the heart of The Essex Serpent lies the thrilling story of Cora Seaborne, a recently widowed woman who leaves London in search of freedom from her stifling marriage and the weight of her grief. Drawn to the rural village of Aldwinter in Essex by rumors of a mythical serpent stirring panic among the locals, Cora’s curiosity soon entangles her with the village vicar, William Ransome. Their charged friendship, marked by tension and mutual fascination, unfolds against the backdrop of superstition, shifting scientific thought, and natural beauty. As the legend of the serpent weaves through the community, the novel delves deeply into themes of belief, love, and the painful, but ultimately hopeful, process of transformation.
By Diane Foster4 months ago in BookClub
A Ring, A Refusal, and Several Fireships
In the summer of 1588, as the Spanish Armada bobbed about the Channel like a parade of very cross breadbins, Her Majesty Elizabeth sat in council with Lord Blackadder and his assistant, Baldrick, who had turned up in a helmet he swore was “sea-proof,” despite being made of turnip.
By Diane Foster4 months ago in Critique
The Cost of Silence
I wasn't supposed to be there that late. Tuesday nights were Jen's closing shift, but she'd texted me at 7:43 PM. Her kid had a fever. Could I please, please cover? I'd said yes before my brain caught up with my mouth, the way you do when you've been working at the Riverside Animal Shelter for six years and everyone's become family.
By Diane Foster4 months ago in Fiction
The Only Thing More Dangerous Than a Secret
Beatrice arrived precisely at four-fifteen, which she considered the most decent hour for dealing with the deceased. Four-fifteen suggested efficiency, but left ample time for a cocktail before one was required to consider dinner.
By Diane Foster4 months ago in Fiction
Blue Eggs and Wormholes
Elon squinted at his tasteless boiled eggs. The yolks weren’t the right shade of blue; Earth cuisine was undoubtedly barbaric. He’d been stuck here for millennia, pretending to be human, inventing flamethrowers for fun. “I just want to go home,” he whispered, Googling “cheap wormholes near me.” His assistant peeked in: “Another Mars rocket, sir?” “Yes,” Elon said, “but this time, make it less explode-y.” He sighed, munching on egg substitute, scrolling through intergalactic Zillow. Nothing. Still stranded, still weirdly famous. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Guess I’ll buy Twitter again.” The AI toaster beeped approval. “Finally,” Elon muttered, “someone from home.”
By Diane Foster4 months ago in Fiction
