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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I was lucky enough to do a school visit in Windsor recently, and one of the father-and-son combos that were present were Scott and Ethan Pack (Scott is the publisher at The Friday Project). Ethan read Changeling and asked if I would mind answering some questions. Here is the interview.

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Last week I saw the Richard Long exhibition at Tate Britain. I love his rhythmic, organic abstracts that suggest simultaneously a cornfield, blood patterns when sun shines through closed eyelids, heavy rain on a window as seen by a child driven by boredom to observe. But the photographs of his walks-as-art got me laughing aloud. Not at him, but at his audacity. How does he find the guts to live precisely as he chooses – walking then photographing his tracks, spooning up tidal mud and stroking it onto walls with his fingers - and make a robust living from doing just that? Suppose we all followed our desires without doubt, guilt or compromise, would we experience the success and joy Long has found? Or do we need that anchor in the ordinary that we think we resent?

I’ve promised my agent a draft of the WIP by August. But June and July are filled with workshops and weddings. I teach and waitress to survive. So when does the book get written? Should I, like Long, jack all but the writing?



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You know what really annoyed me when I was going through the submissions/rejections process?

Actually, it still annoys me.

Published people telling so-called ‘aspiring’ writers that ‘being published won’t sort your whole life out, you know’ or ‘It’s not the be-all and end-all.’

It was OK for them to have spent years working towards their goal, coping with the frustrations, getting disheartened by rejections and yet having the determination to get there in the end. But if you do the same, you must be a deluded wannabe who thinks a book deal will make your bank account groan with a million quid and your letterbox collapse with invitations to soirées with JKR. You sad little person, you – sitting there in your crappy job and dreaming of being famous enough not to have a care in the world. If only you knew the agony of being a published author!


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My mother interrupts her own pause. "Morris dancing? Are we going to a display of morris dancing then?"
"Morris dancing?" My sister's voice manages to pass through several registers of incredulity in just two words. I can feel her eyebrows arching through the back of her head.

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It's a shame the rest of this upbeat tale contradicts itself. Nothing ever seems to get these people down . Heroine Rose is played by 'perky' Amy Adams, her sister by 'quirky' Emily Blunt and their grandfather by 'irascible' Alan Arkin. It's all slightly amusing, and what would be disasters if they happened to normal people just don't have any impact.

So the actual message is ' Carry on mopping '



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Are you a Plotter or a Panter? According to the tutors on a recent writing course, novelists fall roughly into one of these two camps.

Plotters (as you may have guessed) plot. And Panters fly by the seat of their pants.

It was interesting to watch these two tutors at work. The Plotter had a powerpoint presentation, a list of items to get through in each session, and was rigorous about timings. The Panter would say – ‘shall we just try and fit in a couple of tutorials during the teabreak?’



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