Chrissie Gittins (whose collection Family Connections is reviewed here) will be reading from her collection at the Edinburgh International Book Festival on Monday 11th August 4.30pm, at the Writer's Retreat, with Gerard Woodward and Gerard Donavan. Also a poet, Chrissie will be giving a solo children's poetry performance at Edinburgh in the RBS Theatre, also Monday 11th August, at 11.30pm.

Guernica has an interview with Ursula K. Le Guin (her collection, The Birthday of the World is reviewed here):....

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A leisurely start to the day, followed by a quiet hour in the Godalming Quakers service. Sometimes it's lovely to relax into silence and have a definite period of thinking/meditation. Words can be such a barrier on occasions. And it's nice to sit while the silence flows by. It's funny but it does have different colours and stages. Like a river. Sometimes it's stretched thin and you can barely see it, and sometimes, it's like a great flood of gold, and there's no rhyme nor reason as to which it might be at any given time. Very strange. Anyway, before I get too carried away with it all, I must say that I do wish they'd make the benches more comfortable. Next time (and now I suspect there probably will be a next time, sometime) I'll sit at the back where the wall is. And maybe take a cushion. I also played it cleverly in that I didn't order a coffee afterwards so I could slip away without talking to too many people. Aha! I am indeed a sociopath ...

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This morning I got up earlier than I consider altogether decent for a Saturday morning, in order to drive to Hampton Court to do some research. It was cold and grey, with dull light and a nasty east wind, and there was scarcely anyone about except for security people with their coats buttoned up to their chins and an air of bracing themselves for the day as much as the weather. I found my way through arches and past gates as instructed, collected my pass, and trudged past the backs of low buildings - storehouses, offices, goods yards and so on - and through the gardens. Under not-yet-leafed trees what must have been spectacular carpets of daffodils are brown and shrivelled now: between them a few bluebells are showing. Seemingly miles away, and far above our heads, the roof of the Tudor hall and the chimneys and pinnacles of the great gateways are elaborate and remote: an untidy accumulation of Wolsey's blood-coloured grandeur, staring down everyone who approaches. I could smell the woodsmoke where they were lighting the fires in Henry VIII's kitchens. It began to rain.

Through a door in a wall, and round a corner and a couple of centuries, the long, long William & Mary front stretches away.

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It’s very strange, coming across these old pieces of writing and getting a glimpse into my old self; I’m glad I covered some of my thoughts. I remember me, at twenty-odd, standing in a bar, trying to capture remnants of old politics but nothing survived because they hadn’t been written down. I keep telling Amazon that she will regret not writing. So she has scattered bits of diaries (which are better than nothing) but the laptop makes all the difference; now it’s easy to nip in and type a quick note, and Bibo will save her. I can just see her old self cackling at the language of messages and outrageous statements of her twirling twenties.

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I am utterly (and possibly very sadly) thrilled to have received my Torchwood certificate during the week. Signed by the great Captain Jack himself. Ah, I'm now an official operative, you know. And they may well need my services at a future date, should Godalming ever be threatened by alien invasion. Oh no, I'm already too late. Dammit. Never mind, I can still hold my torch in the special Torchwood manner and wear a long black coat. Hmm, in that case I fear no-one will notice the difference ...

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1993 (from my journal, still on the train)

‘There’s the sea!’ Amazon stands up. We’re coming up to Berwick. I like the coastlines; see myself as The French Lieutenant’s Woman, standing on the edge of land, pointing my tragic but beautiful face out to sea, watching for my future, waiting for something to happen. I want a house where the air is on the move: not stagnant. Well-travelled air and a great expanse of sky. Sometimes I stand on the pier at Tynemouth, looking out to sea. I’ve never been further than one night in Amsterdam.

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Had my scan at the Surrey Park Clinic today, which wasn't as terrifying as I'd feared - but I gather that I will probably have to go back in fairly soon to talk about it. Nothing drastic, I hasten to add - but I anticipate a change in my hormones treatment is in the offing. Oh lordy, not another one!

I've also done some essential shopping in order to get three sad-meals-for-one for this weekend, as Lord H is away on a course. Goodness me, but the flat seems quiet right now. I suspect I will have to turn on the TV fairly soon, just in order to fill the space. That said, and while I miss him like crazy, I'm sneaking in a secret curry tomorrow while the chance is there - though I must remember to open the windows afterwards in order to hide the evidence. Lord H Doesn't Do Curry ...

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Ok, here's the thing: how do you KNOW that you can write? I mean really write. Write in a way that you can start to think, "Hey, I might be able to make some kind of a living out of this..." (Don't get me started on writers' earnings...).

To my mind, it's the second book that tells you whether you have a chance in the game or not.

First books tend to 'write themselves' to some extent. It's the exciting adventure of finally putting those thoughts and plans that have been swimming around inside your mind that makes writing your first book such a joy. Sure, you'll be beset with self-doubt and anxieties. Sure, you'll hit bumps in the road where you think that the book is coming apart. But if the dream-genie is kind enough to keep whispering in your ear, the book 'happens'.

Second books are different. They're harder work. They demand more from you because you want them to be better than the first. And they beat you up more because all the time you're writing them, you can hear a snide little whisper in the back of your mind saying, "They won't like it. It's not going to be good enough."


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