A novel way of delivering a few writing pointers.....

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Ooooh, it’s great to get back to normal; I’ve had visitors for the weekend so that means no TV and not much of the horizontal on my sofa – quite the opposite in fact. There were FOUR days of walking, tramping around and now I’m knackered. How lovely is today? Today has been all horizontal in front of the goggle-box; it was raining all morning anyway so not the kind of day to stretch legs or anything physical.



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I must say it was sometimes touch and go whether I made it on time to my Frith Street Chinese class in the past if I forgot to allow for queueing time at the check-out. Then, after a very short period of closure the branch re-opened complete with three excellent self-service machines.


They're a lot more efficient than the supermarket ones, where you have to call an assistant every time you scan a bottle of alcohol or try to remove a full plastic bag from the dispenser or do any one of a dozen actions they don't like. At the library you simply place your pile of books inside a box-shaped space, push a button, put your library card into a slot and get a receipt for whatever you've returned or borrowed. Magic!

At least, I now suspect a supernatural agency is involved.


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Obsessive Compulsive

Alcoholic

Exercise-obsessed

Neat/Clean Freak

Gambler

Nicotine/Caffeine addict

Workaholic

Bulimic/Anorexic

Shopoholic

Do you recognize yourself from this list? Don’t be shy, as a writer you are in good company. Tennesse Williams, Dylan Thomas, Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Capote were all alcoholics. Honore de Balza drank up to fifty coffees a day and poet Vachel Lindsay was obsessed with cleanliness. Dostoevsky at one time gambled badly and Syliva Plath had an eating disorder. And when I first surfed writing forums on the internet, it tickled me how many authors were fellow obsessive compulsives.


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After breakfast this morning, which was, for me, terribly early, (8.30... please don't laugh) I went for a wander at the bottom of the garden, asking my main character what she might do next. I've written two and a bit short stories about her, but if this is going to be something more - a linked collection? - I enjoy following her around but don't really know what the "bigger picture" is..............

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I am going to be on the radio this evening. I’m on WriteOn, a chatshow hosted by Rob Richardson on Express FM. The programme starts at 7pm and you can listen online by going to their website.

Unfortunately they don’t have a ‘listen again’ option so if you miss it, well… I expect you’ll survive.

What is really brilliant is that I am not nervous about it, because it was pre-recorded. I did the interview last Wednesday, while in the early stages of something that might yet prove to be swine flu, so although I have subsequently been feeling rather ill, there is at least the possibility that I sound more Mariella-like than usual.

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Chronologically WriteInvite started in November 2006 in sunny Southsea: 10 x 6-minute pre-written stories with an anonymous vote (democracy is King!) in a salubrious and sort of posh wine bar. Half way through the next year came the themed 20 minute live write (anon vote again)in an oldy worldy hotel, then this year came WriteOnSite - which is the 20 minute write but online, and now Outwrite, basically a day out for gluttons for writing who are open to be inspired by differing enviroments that trigger those galloping pens.


WriteInvite has become a writing community: friendly, encouraging, where...

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I Twittered this morning saying that I thought this was going to be a long day. And it has been. It really, really has.

I had A LOT of work to catch up on, and I've not done too badly. Plenty has spilled into tomorrow though, more than I'd hoped. And I wasn't helped by various people drilling and cutting hedges and generally making too much noise. But such is life. I just wish things could be quieter at times, or that I could concentrate on complicated things with lots of noise going on around me. But in spite of all the distractions I've managed to get contracts and permissions and tax forms (ick!) signed and sent so a short story of mine can be used on a distance creative writing course in the US, which is pleasing.

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I was taken aback when R told Becky he thought the walk from the bus stop, between tower blocks positively sprouting dishes, would lower the spirits. After all, he was brought up not very far away, in one of the barrack-like blocks opposite Camberwell bus station. Although not intended as almshouses, they'd also had been endowed by a nineteenth century philanthropist, Samuel Lewis, with his own ideas about how the poor should live. They lack charm, having more than a hint of the gulag about them.

William Peacock, by contrast was a romantic. Not only did he think the pilgrims should have bathrooms, and a garden, he stipulated that the ground rent for the properties should be 'a single red rose', to be paid annually. He also requested that he and his wife should be buried in the courtyard.


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I'm here! At the Anam Cara retreat in West Cork, Ireland, a writers' heaven. This is the view from my bedroom/workroom window, over the front of the house. Luckily, I am facing this way, because the view from the other side of the house, of rolling green hills down to the sea, is far too distracting. I arrived an hour ago, we had lunch, and I've just set myself up.



This is my third visit here and each has been momentous:

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