I'm still beavering away here - writing, writing, writing. And listening often to an incredible Biber solo piece (THANK YOU KATE for sending it me!).

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I was out with two thirds of Rambo and Leroy last week and was able to hear a couple of their new tracks. They sounded great. (Actually this was from their Special Project and as I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to say about it I'll have to say nothing for the time being...)


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I knew that when I gave up journalism, I'd not be doing any interviewing. But now I have been interviewed! Kay Sexton is the author of the wonderful writing blog Writing Neuroses ... mine are rare, yours may be legion, and she interviewed me about The Short Review and how it started, and about my own writing. Thank you, Kay! Pop by and leave a comment.

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Many writers keep diaries, but I'm not one of them: who else reading this was given one of those 'Five Year Diaries' as a girl, complete with dinky lock and key? Only I never got further than January the 10th, and I suspect the entries were very like the ones that Katy reads aloud from younger brother Dorrie's diary in What Katy Did. "Tuesday: Forget what did. Wednesday: Pudding for dinner. Forget what did." On the other hand I suspect too that if I went back to old novels of mine, I'd find them remarkably like the diaries I didn't keep.

I do like stationery, though, and used to lust after lovely paper for letters I don't write, and card and glue for grand projects I never finished. Nor did I have any use for gorgeous notebooks, because I didn't have the chronic urge of many proto-writers to set down thoughts and observations in something portable and always to hand.


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Lots of fun with meetings today – cancelled some, added in extra meetings just in case there aren’t enough in the New Year, chased up my Chair for others and hustled for decent amounts of food in the rest. Well, I don’t want my people gnawing at the furniture. Estates & Buildings will not be pleased if they do.

Talking of E&B though, they’ve done an excellent job of tracking down the parcel that the rather unhelpful and badly named Home Delivery Services have been trying to deliver to me for nearly a week. Now all I have to do is collect it and work out what it is. Christmas – it’s a wonderful thing, you know …

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I thought I had Christmas under control (and by that I mean that I've strung up the fairy lights and put the wondrously tacky Singing Christmas Mice on the mantelpiece). But a jolt this morning has sent my mind a-festive-boggle.



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Had a lovely day out today at the London Wetland Centre with the brother-in-law and his fiancee - hello, Peter and Sue! Great to catch up with you both, and I'm only sorry that the weather wasn't that good. Mind you, it could have rained a lot more, so we should be thankful for small mercies!

We managed to see about six zillion shovellers, three zillion herons (I accept some of this sentence might be exaggeration for effect) and a decent amount of teal. Not to mention magpies, smews, some goldeneye and one or two of those glorious green ring-necked parakeets. But Bird of the Day definitely goes to me (hurrah! I can have a Smug Birder Wife look for a month now) for spotting a Water Rail while everyone else was looking the other way ...

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The weather is foul. Sunday started on a blast, continues on a blast, rattling everything around me. Last week, I sent a story off and expect it will return. But, must pull myself out of this lethargy which all stems from the fact that I've got Xmas cards to write. This not not a favourite time of year. Once expectations were high but, growing older, those expectations sink into a mire of expense, false bonhommie, and COOKING. Forgive me dear Blog, it's one of those days.

Two conversations with The Girl this week reminded me of how Time is a concept with completely different meanings for writers, on the one hand, and agents/editors on the other.

1. Time According to Agents and Editors

The Girl: Mum, when can I have my ears pierced?
Me: When you're 14.
The Girl: But Mia has her ears pierced and she's only four and I'm three and three-quarters.
Me: That's up to Mia's mummy. But you can have them done at 14.
The Girl: But I want to have earrings when I'm still at school.
Me: You'll still be at school when you're 14.
The Girl: (wide-eyed) Really??
Me: Of course.
The Girl: Hooray! OK, Mum, I'll wait till I'm 14! (Skips off happily as if she thinks a decade will pass in the blink of her big blue eyes...)

2. Time According to Writers

The Girl: Can you read me this book, Mum?
Me: Sure, just as soon as I've finished this sentence.
The Girl: How long?
Me: Five minutes.
The Girl: Is it five minutes yet?
Me: No, that was about five seconds. Go and play for five minutes, I'll call you when I'm ready.
The Girl: I'll wait here. (Leans on my arm as I type; puts face very close to mine and stares intently.) Is it five minutes yet?
Me: No, it's not even one minute. Go in the wendy house until I call you.
The Girl: No.
Me: Well wait then. You've got four more minutes.
...
The Girl: Is it four minutes yet?
Me: NO! Oh please just let me finish. I will read you that book and any other books you like if you just give me a few minutes peace.
The Girl: What's a few?
Me: Four.
The Girl: But it's already been four.
Me: AAARGGGHHHH. OK, give me the book.
The Girl: Thanks, Mum!


This post is dedicated to any writers out there who are waiting, and respectfully to any agents or editors who are currently in the process of putting us (and hundreds like us) out of our misery.

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The delightful Jilly Weekes has made my day twice by posting two reviews of A Dangerous Man. One is on Amazon, as below:

“As another reviewer has mentioned, this is a very unsettling book. Michael is enthralled by his art. He had an abusive upbringing and is constantly trying to escape from it. A tragic figure, it soon becomes clear that he is unable to escape from his own history however far he moves away from it. Michael is also gay and seems drawn to the type of relationships which can only damage him further. Then he falls in love with Jack - a business tycoon - who adores him too and is willing to encourage his art and help him to overcome his past. Michael is unable to recognise Jack's love and tenderness for him as genuine and ultimately betrays him because he knows no other way of relating ...

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Honestly. Today. My back feels as if I've had a wire coat-hanger placed just beneath the skin and some bugger is twanging on it until I'm so hyper that I just can't think. I've struggled with the writing today (but whether that's a cause or a result, I simply don't know) and am feeling hugely unconfident. God, it's not going anywhere and no matter how hard I pedal, the damn bike is slipping down the hill. No, more of a ruddy mountain than a hill ...

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