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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I'll be away from my office from tomorrow, so no more blogging till Monday I expect. If anyone's in Oxfordshire and fancies meeting up then drop me a line and I'll see where I'm up to.

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And, as far as I'm aware, Canalside Community Radio will be broadcasting what was recorded at the launch night for 20 Photographs & 20 Stories, this Sunday from 8am (you can listen online here).

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Julia Churchill joined the Greenhouse Literary Agency in January 2002, where she heads up the UK/Commonwealth side of the business. Previous to this she was an Associate Agent at the Darley Anderson Agency.


Which 3 authors, dead or alive, would you invite to dinner?
Alexandre Dumas because THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO is my favourite book. Roald Dahl because he's still got the best stories. And Cathy Cassidy because she's one of the nicest people I know and I love everything she writes. Also because if I'm meeting two dead heroes I'd really like a friend there to talk about it with afterwards.

When I was a child I read....
Everything that came my way.

Favourite desktop snack?
KitKats and Earl Grey tea. I dip.

When rejecting I...
Try to be quick and kind. Like a good waxer.

Independent bookshop or Amazon?
Bookshop. I like to browse.


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Not mine, no no. This one, on God Shuffles His Feet - Can Writing Be Taught?

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So, in the light of the tube strikes I decided to catch the boat to work this morning. I board at 7.15 am along with other smug commuters, complete with flask of tea I settle myself into the front deck of the boat. Several stops later the boat is rammed full and I am freezing cold, desperate for the toilet, suffering from mild sea-sickness and then the heavens open. I have nowhere to go for shelter, so as the boat continues, droplets of water the size of lakes hit me straight in the face and I can barely see for squinting into the wind. I am also only twenty minutes into my two hour journey into work. Forty minutes later we arrive at Blackfriars, soaked, dishevelled and green only to be hurled into the side of the jetty, since the driver of the boat mistook his distance between the side of the boat and the jetty. A few people plunder sideways and I narrowly escape being thrown off the side of the boat - (although, I figure, it wouldn’t make much difference since I’m already soaked through.) I climb the three foot high step onto dry land, losing all dignity in the process since my skirt had to be hitched up in order for my legs to stretch the distance.



The walk was pleasant enough, though still raining. I did not get lost so was able to easily observe the chaos on the streets and roads of London: People wandering about clutching soggy ‘Google’ maps, the morbidly obese, red faced and wobbling slowly down the street, middle aged admin ladies huddling over maps like they are taking part in an orienteering, office bonding excursion. Tourists dragging their suitcases behind them looking totally bereft – Yes, London is expensive and the transport is crap to boot. If you value your health or your life, never come back.



Two hours and twenty minutes later I arrive at work. Only to be told by chirpy colleagues that the two tube lines that I normally get were working after all.



My only hope is that my return boat journey tonight does not sink in a monumental effort to impersonate the Titanic.