Got into work today to find a load of emails I had to do something about, dammit. And speedily. Isn’t that just the way? Oh for a pleasant slide into the working week. How lovely that would be. Still, I think I know what they’re all about now – so I have been busy collating information into nice little tables for management to look at later. And no doubt ignore. Heck, it gives us all a sense of purpose, you know ...

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Some books, more specifically short story collections, are like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get. And I found myself thinking this about Leading The Dance, by Sarah Salway this week.

You see, I never read the stories in collections in order. I don't know why, I just don't. Last week, after many weeks of dipping in to it, I realised that sadly I was nearing the end. I probably only had one or two stories left to read, though, as I'd not read it in order, I didn't know how many.


So, like those last few chocolates in a box you've really loved, I tried to save them. You know, as a treat. I didn't want to be greedy and scoff them all in no time. And I didn't want to lift the lid and see how many (or few) I had left. I wanted to enjoy them. And enjoy them I did but...

The box is empty now, and I'm disappointed.

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The other day I was commenting on someone's work, and found myself saying, ‘Women may be unreadable to men, but as a writer you have to convey that they could be read.’ Leaving aside the truth or falsity of the first half of that sentence, it still raises an interesting question about how you imply what you don't say outright. Poets assume that readers will unpack their poems (although I'm never sure if that's a safe assumption of the listeners who have to be such a large part of a poet's concern these days). But those of us who write prose fiction - most of all novels - have to assume that our words may only get one pass, as it were, from a reader.

The question's most acute when you have a narrator who's also a character in the novel.

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On Friday I went to see a play called 'Netochka Nezvanova - Nameless Nobody' at the New End Theatre in Hampstead. It was an astonishing one-woman show, based on an unfinished Dostoevsky novel, performed by Vera Filatova. Vera was on Broadcasting House this morning talking about how the current Anglo-Russian difficulties have impacted on the production.

I was lucky enough to chat to Vera in the pub afterwards, along with some very friendly, and not at all melancholic, Dostoevsky fans. Well, most of the people there were Dostoevsky fans. A young Russian woman called Marina told me that she didn't actually like Dostoevsky because the books are too grim. I argued that there was quite a lot of humour in Dostoevsky. "Yes but it is very dark humour," she said. And to be honest I couldn't argue with that.

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Bloody hell, that's a long title. Still, you should never be afraid of a long title - it shows commitment and pizzazz, ho ho. Today Lord H and I have been to Frensham Common and walked round the Great Pond. We also attempted to walk round the Little Pond but frankly, m'dears, we were totally exhausted by then and just came home. Well, it's ruddy difficult walking on sand in Wellington boots. Not many birds either - a shed-load of ducks, coots & moorhens, with one or two tits (as it were) and a grebe. A tad disappointing then but it's still nice to be out ...

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[b]"Say it quick."[/b]

Of course it really means "write it quick." But not in the sense of writing fast. There isn't a clock to watch. Flash is usually under 1500 words, more likely a 1000 words and better yet around 500 words. Some may insist Flash can be a sentence. OK. I'll give in to interpretation.

The bottom line: there still needs to be a story. The one that has a beginning, middle and an end.

Please visit my blog to contribute your thoughts on flash or short story fiction.

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Surprise, surprise, it's another wet day. Why is my barometer showing high pressure? Got up early, as usual, and wrote a letter to Stanley Middleton. Met him in Summer School in the early nineties and, though in awe at first, knowing that the tutor was a Booker Prize winner, my nerves quickly disappeared. A kind, witty, intelligent man, who enjoyed helping wannabe writers, has remained my muse and friend since those wonderful days. Now in his mid eighties, he still writes novels but always finds time to send me a monthly letter telling me of his news. Writing letters, they say, is a dying art but having always enjoyed the process of putting pen to paper, it's a joy. Forms, of course, are a different matter. Tomorrow, I've forms to fill.

Lynda came bright and early today to cut my hair - we only just had time for baths before she arrived. Mind you, knowing how efficient she is, she's probably been sitting outside all night as she does so hate being late. Anyway, I now have a chic new cut which will last until I wash it tomorrow, dammit - so no bugger at all will notice when I go into work on Monday. They never do ...

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On yet another wet, dark day, I received cheerful news. The flash fiction I thought hadn't gone, did go! And I've just received an email from Don at Bewildering Stories accepting my flash. Now, after a day finishing off some decorating, I'm going to shower, pour out a glass of red wine and challenge hubby with a game or two of Scrabble. What a mad life I lead.

I finished reading Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach yesternight. This is a novel you read and think to yourself, 'Why is everything real?' It's a masterpiece and Mr. McEwan needs to be celebrated by this. The characters are so real that you get so engrossed in what they do. I hate to think that The Gathering by Anne Enright won the Booker even when On Chesil Beach was on the list. You know, after reading Ms Enright's novel, I said to myself, 'Is she such a sex maniac?' The narrator is such obsessed with sex, that I will hate myself anytime I think of reading her work.

On Chesil Beach is set, should I say, in one night? Its major characters are Edward and Florence, the young, virgin and educated marrieds who couldn't hold on their one-day marriage, at the expense of immaturity. Set in 1961, with flashbacks and flashforwards infused in this lyrical, plumpy, lushy prose, the novel tells of the lives of people haunted by fear and spite. Unlike me, British writings do not interest me, even though I enjoyed Shakespearean works when I was in high school, On Chesil Beach has completely taken me back to that era of recognising the colonial writing, which is why I was so engrossed in this novel of real ambition.

I'm happy that Mr. McEwan won the Booker in 1998. Maybe, he didn't win the 2007 Booker Prize because the judges wanted a fresh blood. Having read Saturday, I long for Atonement and Amsterdam with the same eagerness, because Mr. McEwan's style is rare and exceptional. It's one of those rare occassions when you grab a novel and do not want it to end. That's what happened to me when I started reading this book.