An aspiring writer who's hovering somewhere between Reasons They're Rejecting You numbers 12 and 13 of Slushkiller's classic list (scroll down a bit), poor thing, has reached that banging-her-head-against-the-wall-and-howling stage. 'What more do I have to do?' she cries. She's written the best book she's capable of, and then made it better still. It's beautifully written, thoughtful, compelling, the voices are great and the plot excellent. Everyone who sees it loves it enough to bother to write a personal rejection, but reject it they do: somehow, it didn't quite grab them enough, in a climate where a book has to rival the grip of the Boston Strangler to be taken on. Some of the rejections mentioned that it falls between 'literary' and 'commercial' which makes it extra-hard to sell. Oh, I've been there (specially on the literary-commercial thing), and there's probably still a dent in the wall of the house I used to live in, where I took those feelings out on it some years ago. I've even offered the afflicted soul the very large, sharp-cornered nursing textbook I used then, because I know it does the job so very satisfyingly.

How does a writer, doing something so well, do it better, just to get over the bar from what my agent calls high competence, into being taken on?

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Okay so, as you can see.. I'm a newbie. Actually the reason why I write this is because i need you guys! Why? I can't say much yet but there's one thing I can say, or ask, anyway it goes like this:

did you learn anything from life? Like lessons from life? if so, and you're willing to share them, please Share!

Thanks a lot to all of you guys who will answer and if you're curious about why I need this, or simply want to have a chat with me, you can add me on myspace.com/underground_steph I don't promise to answer but if I have time it'll be my pleasure to do so.

‘There is a bleed,’ he said.
Not, ‘Your daughter has had a cerebral haemorrhage.’ No, I get the dumbed-down version. Her brain is bleeding into the nape of her neck, where it will disperse. Well that’s nice and tidy, isn’t it? I’m sitting in a tiny room being diagnosed as thick. I want to be bombarded with enormous words and unintelligible language. She’s only been here a couple of hours and has already had two brain scans; they wouldn’t spend that kind of attention on nothing. I’m choking here, trying to be passive and not in the least dangerous.
A new doctor, Mr Surgeon, throws an assortment of options on the table, all of which include the possibility of death. Claire is an adult and only she can make this choice.


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Some pics (taken by Hannah Young) of Thursday's reading.

And a HUGE thanks to the fab ww authors who kindly donated their books to the Book Aid raffle - we raised almost £80 which'll provide about 60 books.

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It was odd to see the sweet 80-year-old lady being helped into her cinema seat one minute and soon after appearing onscreen as the irresistible femme fatale.



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Writers have been getting a bit of flack, recently, for dragging their personal lives into the public eye. I’m thinking in particular of Julie Myerson, whose latest novel “The Lost Child” chronicles how her teenage son’s addiction to cannabis finally led her and her husband to change the locks in order to keep him out of the house, in a desperate bid to save their sanity and the unity of the rest of the family.

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After a very bad start to the year everything appears to be returning to an even keel and in terms of the novel, going as it should. I'm a lot happier being out of work for the now and seeing progress being made. The novel seems a lot sharper and more sure of itself, and that can only be a good thing, right?

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I never thought it would come to this, but I actually wandered the streets with my laptop searching for WiFi to steal! As you might surmise, I found it, and am now sitting on the Poperinge pavement, my back against the glass front of the pharmacy on the town square (closed on Sundays), listening to the church bells and ignoring odd looks from the passing Belgian townsfolk. Do people not sit on pavements with their laptops in small Belgian towns? Surely it must happen more and more.

I just got asked directions from some suitcase-wheeling tourists, who wanted to go to the one place I actually know around here, so I am useful, at least! Others are staring at me. Well, let them stare. I must blog.

So, Thursday was intense.

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It's rare to condemn a play outright, because there's nearly always some aspect that's well done. With such a wide range of things to consider - acting, set, lighting, costumes, etc, it's almost impossible to find nothing to praise. It seems to me the critic risks a loss of credibility with his readers, though, if he fails to point out serious flaws in the writing.



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My good friend Liz once described me as ‘domestically disabled’. In writing. More specifically, in writing on my personal profile on the occasion of my frankly disastrous and short-sighted foray into online dating. I was a little bit hurt. Not about the dating - concerning which I was truthfully neither here nor there – but about the slur on my femininity. That wound gaped deeply for about as long as it took me to, oh, light a cigarette and accidentally drop ash on the carpet.


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