In order to give myself the sense of having achieved something during this period when I can't write because of my un-well-ness, I tidied, at long last, our enormous bookcase. This is just novels - short stories, non-fiction, science, other sections are in other rooms. Alphabetically arranged. It is so tall I had to get on a ladder to get to the A - E sections.
It is now beautifully arranged, and dusted. And while I was sorting it all out I found that we have four John Updike books so I decided to make one of them my Shabbat reading as a tribute to the man who wrote, among other things, twelve short story collections between the years 1959 and this year. The book J picked out for me, The Afterlife and Other Stories, was published in 1994 and the title seemed fitting.I have read Updike's stories over the years in the New Yorker, as well as his essays and criticism, but have never considered him to be a favourite of mine. As I started reading it I wondered why on earth I hadn't read more. Hese stories illustrate exactly the point I was trying to make to my short story workshop participants about not giving a reader any excuse, any reason to stop reading your story..........

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Thought it was time for another update. Things, as they have a funny habit of doing, have happened. Firstly, I 'lost' my job. Honestly, I don't know where I put it. One day, I woke up, caught the bus, and just didn't know where I was going anymore. Go figure...

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The life of a swimming widow...

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Well, today is officially the last day on which you can wish a 'Happy New Year' to someone you haven't seen in a long time. By February all hope is lost - it'll either be a happy year or it won't, but either way there's no turning back.

2009 has already been something of a mixed bag for me. Positive highlights include attending a very interesting and informative 'Get Started in Voice Overs' workshop at Shining Management, confirming two school visits for March and starting work on my first playscript. On the negative side, my mother had to go into hospital for 8 days, the playwriting course I wanted to do was cancelled at the last minute and I've also found myself plagued by strange dreams about people I haven't seen in years - very odd!


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Every six months or so, just as the last notes of the dawn chorus were fading, mum would pack my little sister and I into the car for the bi-annual Shopping Trip. Essential supplies were needed - after all, Maidstone was at least 17 miles away from home so it was better to be safe than sorry. Crisps? Check. Extra coats? Check. Warm overly strong overly orange orange squash in a plastic bottle? Check. Oven off? Door locked? Check Check Check and Check again.


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I've just recieved my invitation for the launch party for the erotic anthology In Bed With... Since there are twenty of us authors, it's hardly surprising that we can only invite a certain number of friends each, but now, apparently, demand from the press and media for invitations has been much, much higher than anticipated. Since the good folk of Little, Brown's publicity department know their stuff, have run one or two launch parties in their time and so must know what the usual rate for accepting invitations is, I can only come to the staggeringly original conclusion that Sex Sells.

But of course, no one knows which of those twenty stories I wrote, except me and the desk editor, and far as I know the other authors are in much the same position; we've all written under pseudonyms, and everyone's being very careful not to give anything away. So the common currency of a launch - part celebration, part confidence boost, part media-trap - can only work collectively.

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There is a kind of writer who rarely spares a thought for the reader. I’m writing my novel for myself, they’ll say. And if someone should happen to pick it up and something I’ve written resonates with them, that’s great. But even if no one ever read a word it wouldn’t stop me writing. Fair enough, I always think, as long as you don’t mind if it stops you being published either.

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I was asked by facebook friend and audiobook reviewer Sharon Harriott whether there is an audiobook of A Vengeful Longing. The answer is yes!

I have to confess that I'm not a fan of audiobooks myself. Reading has always been a silent occupation for me, and I find the reader's voice too intrusive. This is especially so when I'm listening to audiobooks of my own work - which, frankly, is something I just can't do. However, I do know there are people who love them, and indeed some who rely on them. (Audiobooks in general, I mean - not my audiobooks!) So for those of you who are interested, the audiobook of A Vengeful Longing is available through audible, as an mp3 download. I think that means you can put it on your ipod, if that's the kind of thing you're into.

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so...its easy to slip on words...something im particularly good at...and blogs have never attracted me before...so protentious...are they not..assuming anyone would want to hear what youve got to say...[if you havent made contact in a personal sense]
but
habits need breaking for me...at the moment...so...maybe i'll keep a render of my chronologic viewpoint...
im off back to blighty shortly...if i can manage the cold weather...[probably not] its been 40deg celsius for nearly a week now...in melbourne where i live...peoples behaviour tends to change with that amount of heat...particularly when we had given up on a summer this yr...lots of coldish days following coldish days...
now its probably the hottest its ever been... the trains wont run...the rails are buckling... and the effort to move requires the brain to cencentrate...im fitter than most and i have air con bolt holes...but i pity those that didnt heed the warnings about climate change...this is a sun burnt country...but thats a function of
out-back...the coastal fringe joins the red heart now...and water will be a problem...the eurpeans always assumed they were in control here...not so...its 43.3deg at the moment...people are melting

Needy. That's what it is. It reminds me of Wednesday afternoons on the school playing field, standing in a group, trying hard not to shiver as the cold wind blew in over the muddy pitch and whistled around your bare legs, waiting for the 'captains' to choose their teams.

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