I must say that I thought last night's first episode of "The Devil's Whore" was a real class act - utterly gripping, layered, human and deep. Which is saying something indeed for the usual run of television these days. If you didn't manage to catch it, get yourself in front of the TV next Wednesday night at 9pm and enjoy. Well, that is, unless they change the schedules of course. If the next three episodes maintain the standards of this first one (even though Lord H would have preferred more on the battles, naturally ...), then I think we may have this year's drama winner on our hands.

It also struck me that, as a refreshing change from our celebrity and appearance-obsessed society, it was lovely to see that the most wisdom, dignity and simple humanity came from the plain-looking folk whom everyone mocked (aka the Puritans and Levellers), rather than the posh, pretty folk everyone was bowing to (aka the Royals, the gentry and their ilk). A lesson surely also to be learnt in the recent Strictly debacle, if I'm not much mistaken ...


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When I was first asked if I'd be interested in writing an erotic story for an anthology by contemporary women writers I wasn't sure what to say. Yes, I like writing short stories, and writing sex, and yes, the general opinion seems to be that I do it well and yes, the advance for my one story would make a considerable difference to the domestic budget. But still... I was busy hammering out what was become A Secret Alchemy: could I put those voices, those worlds, on hold while I dreamt up something else? And would my writerly reputation - such as it is - be cast forever into the outer darkness of a genre almost as literarily unrespectable as doctor-and-nurse romances? (Though to my mind the campus novel is simply hospital romance for the literati). And then I realised I did have a character I was really fond of, from a story which I'd never quite got right but whose central idea I still believed in and wanted to explore. And my agent reassured me that my reputation was not seriously at risk.

What with A Secret Alchemy being published, and my trip to Mexico, not to mention grappling with the PhD and every now and again having to take time out to cope with real life, I keep forgetting that I'll have another publication to celebrate in January. Indeed, it's already out in Australia. The conceit of in In Bed With is that we're all writing under pseudonyms, so I'm not going to tell you what my story's about, although my fellows on the MPhil at Glamorgan will recognise the opening - ah - scenario from this character's earlier life. But as you can see from the cover, I'm in some classy company.

I'm interested that whenever the subject of writing sex comes up (sorry: it's impossible to discuss without falling into a hundred snigger-making doubles-entendres) it's regarded as big issue.

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Guess what, Blogspot Buddies? I am writing again! What a huge relief; I was beginning to think I'd lost it forever. I am very excited about my new work in progress because it is one of those projects that seems to come from nowhere, yet feels as if it has been waiting somewhere at the back of my mind forever. If it carries on developing at the rate it currently is, I could be sitting on something amazing. And this all came about because I did something I haven't done in ages - I sat back and looked at the whole picture.


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James Hardy is strolling along Berwick Street browsing the record shops. A bitter, jealous loathing erupts with an intensity that both shames and scares me. But the loathing is stronger than the shame.

He looks so casual that for a moment I wonder if I have the right man. Then he stops for two pretty girls half my age who are holding towards him pens and copies of his lavishly bound novel with a submissive eagerness that momentarily pleases my misogynistic tendencies. With a winning smile he scrawls his signature and, no doubt, a charming personal message on the title page of each.

He excuses himself and the girls watch him leave with the books clutched to their chests and their hearts swelling. He doesn’t look back and the girls turn away, giggling and opening their phones to tell their friends...

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Ye gods and little fishes, I’ve actually managed to get both drafts of the minutes out which were cluttering up my desk earlier in the week. Double hurrahs and put out the bunting. Joy abounds indeed. Lucky Joy. However, it’s rather shortlived as I’m now faced with a massive annual reporting project. Dammit. Ah well, best see if I can make sense of it one way or the other and maybe it’ll all become clear by the end of the day. Hey ho. Don’t wait up ...


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I have re-designed my main website, so click here if you’d like to take a look:

www.carolinerance.co.uk



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I don’t think I remembered anything about yesterday’s Bible readings – it was as if any sense had been sucked from my head by a mental hoover. A common occurrence really. Which caused me to write this:

Meditation 2

Black marks on snow
signify nothing; the electrical
link from the word
to the brain

is missing today. Tell me:
when does meaning start?

...

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Today I am hosted by the wonderful Sue Guiney on her blog, and we're talking about fiction and religion, something I had never thought about before she asked me her thought-provoking questions. A taster:

In a way, the fiction writer's “What if...?” that he or she asks himself is similar to the Talmudic rabbis, who discussed and pondered every possible permutation that occurred to them, every possible behaviour or situation that someone might come up against, in order to formulate a Jewish answer – or more than one! I have studied a little bit of Talmud and find it fascinating, the rabbis were often highly imaginative in the scenarios they thought up and in the ways they formulated solutions to problems.

For the rest of the interview, click here.
For more details about my Virtual Book Tour, visit TheWhiteRoadandOtherStories.com.

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Am utterly suffused by Monday gloom today, groan. Maybe it’s the time of year. Or (more likely) probably just me. Double groaning. Am so bad today in fact that I am barely able to communicate with the outside world at all and have taken to opening my eyes wide and sighing as a means of conveying the angst. Words being a concept entirely beyond me at the moment. Somebody pass me the smelling salts. The Quiet Life pills and the Rescue Remedy just ain’t working, dammit ...


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I have been Internet-less for the past few days, it was wonderful to get back online today and find 21 comments waiting for me, thank you all for your congratulations, it means so much to me. Must pay in that cheque...

(Just a note: all the links in this blog post open in a new window, so feel free to click without fear of missing anything here!)

In other nice news: I heard about Eyeshot last week through the Literary rejections on display blog, which was talking about the editor, Lee Klein's, legendary and lengthy rejection letters. I thought to myself, Well, let's get me one of those great rejections, and I sent off a new and strange flash story.

Instead, two days later, I got this:....

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