Why is it that as soon as I’ve sealed an envelope or parcel of any kind, I start to worry that it might contain something entirely different to whatever it was I originally intended to post? I mean, it’s extremely unlikely that I (or indeed anyone) might accidentally send someone a live chimpanzee, a pile of damp socks, or a box of jelly, instead of the nice, normal book or cuddly toy which I originally planned to dispatch. If nothing else, then surely the conspicuously different shape and smell of the parcel would betray my blunder before I could get too far with the posting process.

No need to worry then, one might think. Unfortunately, however, the potential errors in content about which I'm inclined to fret aren't usually that extreme. They tend to be somewhat subtler, though no less detrimental to my peace of mind. For example, roughly seven seconds after sealing the envelope of a birthday card, I begin to worry that I may not have put the right card inside. For while the envelope clearly does contain a card, who’s to say that I didn’t, in a fit of absent-minded distraction, insert one addressed to someone else, or perhaps one that congratulates the recipient on attaining the wrong age? (Happy Birthday, Grandma – 5 Today!)

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First, I must say thank you to Jane, Ang & Jane’s mother for a wonderful evening out last night. I think we put Godalming to rights and we talked a great deal about vomit. My ideal evening really. Jane’s mother also managed to dissuade me from breaking into the (naturally shut – but it was evening so I forgive them, this time …) briefcase shop which is opposite the restaurant. Probably a wise move. Even I can see it might have been tricky explaining it to the police …

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I felt I should post something on this after reading Welshcake's blog earlier. I don't know the ins and outs of the situation she's referring to (and don't want to either) but here are the basics:

Writer gets fab deal. Fellow writer from one writers' website or another gets jealous and makes snide comments about said success.

Which is silly really.

Why?

Allow me to put forward my answer.

Writers get jealous. They are naturally envious creatures. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that at all. It is natural. Totally.

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As some readers of this blog may have realised, in my spare time, when I’m not fighting off grubby handprints from the boy or working towards a nasty deadline in La Office, I’m a writer.
Now I say I’m a writer because I write. I have written almost three books - and countless columns and a jillion articles on everything ranging from depression to the monthly Diabetes Association meetings.
I’m not really qualified to be a writer. I am, of course, qualified to be a journalist and I follow certain journalistic rules - otherwise I imagine I would get the boot.
But when it comes to writing I’m a fly by the seat of my pants kind of a gal.

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Hey, my two favourite things. Well two of my favourite things anyway. And sound the trumpets but I’m having a good day today. Hurrah! I managed to get the first draft of the Nursery Group minutes done and the Acting Chair is happy with it. Actually, he said he was more than happy – he went so far as to say they were excellent. Ye gods! It’s not often the Head of HR says that to anyone, believe me. Naturally I took the opportunity to ask if now was a good time to enquire after a pay rise – to which he replied that I’d be more than welcome to do so, but to bear in mind that HR knew at least 100 ways of saying no. Ah well, that’s me told then. But hey, it was classy. I might well use that line later …

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Okay bit of fun. Experiment if you like. Often in the blogosphere a story is started and then the challenge is to continue it in the comments.

Let's try it here, where I know a lot of writers hang out, and see what we end up with.
Word Limit per comment is 250.

Have a go, even if you don't consider yourself a writer.

Best contribution to the story wins themselves a £40 amazon voucher! (or $80)

Ready? Here we go ...

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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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