‘But he isn’t Steinbeck or Hemingway, so why does he write like that?

Do we like contemporary novels to remind us of past writers we admire? When does too literary a style detract from a crime novel? These points are relevant to a discussion of RJ Ellory’s A Quiet Belief in Angels.


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This is the first book event I’ve done where I’ve actually got some good photos! At Chesham today I sold five copies – which might not sound like much but the signing was well worth doing, not least because of the surrounding publicity...

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I always thought of that Alice Cooper song as an anthem for freedom, but today I've seen the other side of the coin.

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There are some excellent discussions going on today around the subject of plagiarism, what it is, what it isn't and how to avoid it. Rather than attempting to replicate, I will point you to a selection of the best, beginning with How Publishing Works, which links to other blogs including Sally Quilford's thought-provoking piece at Quiller's Place which discusses, among other themes, how fanfiction fits into the debate. This is a topic close to my heart (I once wrote a published letter to Mslexia about it) and it was great to see Sally tackle it so sanely. Try accusing Susan Hill or Jean Rhys of plagiarism, and see how far it gets you. I'd like to raise a glass to the best fanfiction writers out there - you make my life better and brighter, so cheers!

Now I'd like to talk a bit about originality, because it's one of the things that impresses the socks off me as a reader and a writer.

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Ok, so first, on this day I was born, yup, my birthday. I like birthdays. I don't have a hang-up about age, it seems to me that life gets better and better, and I have no idea what the year might bring but I look forward to it all! This is a quiet birthday, which suits me fine, that's just where I am right now. It's been a hell of a year, ups and downs, so a quiet day making birthday cupcakes and being with J and the cats. Lovely.

This day is also How Publishing Really Works' Anti-Plagiarism Day, with writers and bloggers across the blogsphere drawing attention to this topic, giving their experiences and their thoughts. Because it is my birthday I don't want to dwell on my recent and distressing experience of being plagiarised, but I want to talk about being inspired by someone else's writing.

As synchronicity would have it, over at Nik's blog is a great interview with Shaindel Beers, poet and fellow Salt author, whose wonderful collection, A Brief History of Time, I mentioned here. She says the following:...............

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As you probably know I've been rather excited about Shaindel Beers' poetry collection, A Brief History of Time, so just imagine how excited I am about having her here on my blog. Yes. Very.

Welcome to the blog, Shaindel. It’s a true pleasure to have you here. So, who are you? What do you do?

Thanks, Nik! Lovely to be here. That’s certainly a broad question. Let’s see. I’m a writer and full-time college writing instructor in Pendleton, Oregon. I spend most of my time teaching, reading, and writing, at least, I hope. I’m afraid if we timed my life, I might spend the most time grading, followed by laundry, dishes, and cooking, but let’s not think that way. And then I work part-time jobs on weekends—Saturdays as a fitness instructor at Curves and Sundays doing yard work for a couple in a nearby town. I’m always busy, it seems. Oh, I also teach poetry writing online at AllWriters.org, if any of your readers would be interested in looking into online writing courses with me or with other great writers in the States.



The poems in A Brief History of Time are varied in theme, form and subject matter; is there one place they all started from?

That’s really interesting to think about because I guess that one place would be my consciousness, unless everything starts in the subconscious?

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First out, cheers to Roderic for giving me his slot this month. He met Sheila, my missus, on one of those writing courses down the local pub, and he drops in for a cuppa every now and then to talk about the stuff they write. You should hear them, spending hours looking at one sentence and trying to decide if it should be “dandled the baby in her arms” or “dandled the baby in her hands”. Bollocks in my opinion, but there you are. Course, if he dandles Sheila anywhere, I’ll rip his eyes out. If you really want my opinion, she should be spending more time with the actual baby; I can hear it starting to cry in the back room.


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When I was first doing the submissions/rejections thing, I had an idealistic vision of post-publication life.

That is, I thought it would be pretty much the same as before.

I would have a book with my name on it, but other than that I'd still be sitting in the same chair, writing another novel at the same computer. The only differences would be that I'd have a valid excuse for doing it, and if I was very lucky, I'd get the occasional PLR payment enabling me to treat myself to a Wispa...

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A writer friend, whom I called Marguerite before, is grappling with feedback on her novel from her agent: the writing's wonderful, the world is fully realised, but although the main character bears much the largest part of the burden of what sounds like a very fascinating novel, he's a bit baffling, and we don't really get to know him. The problem is, says Marguerite, that he is solitary, reclusive, super-defended, perhaps slightly mad, and the reason, and the mainspring of the story, is a mystery in his past.

'In other words, you've given yourself a built-in problem,' I said, as the second instalment of coffee arrived. 'It's something inherent in what you're trying to do: the thing's worth doing, but it's hard to make work. I often find myself pointing that out in editorial reports.'

'Yes,' said Marguerite. 'The thing is, he isn't just not letting the other characters in, or the readers, he's not letting me in. That's why he's come out like that.'

It's the kind of statement which either annoys or fascinates non-writers, and often annoys the more down-to-earth of our brethren too. This character isn't human, after all, it's Margeurite's concoction of scraps from her experience. A puppet, a symbol, a function in a plot, a representation of a human in a medium which itself has no physical existence at all: a story transmitted by black symbols on the page, to be recreated by readers in accordance with a set of rules and customs, as they assemble 'him' from their own scraps of experience.

And yet both writers and readers talk quite casually as if such creatures (in the true sense of 'created beings') are people.

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