"It is complete stool-water. It is arse gravy of the worst kind."

Spoken on QI. Genius.

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We live in a world in which we are surrounded by an obsession with size. Size double zero is the new size zero, according to the Americans. And you only need to look on the cover of OK or Hello magazine, or indeed any of the glossies, to see a story about someone's weight. You can have two size ten dresses, bought from different shops, and both may vary widely. Not because the manufacturer has made a mistake, but because size simply varies. And then there's food - you can choose the 'super-size' meal option at many outlets - presumably then, you won't be a double size zero though! At the vast majority of these fast-food eateries, it's not about the quality of the food, but the sheer quantity which appears.

When it comes to books though, you have to ask yourself, does size really matter? When you're in the throes of plotting the storyline or getting down to the nitty gritty of your WIP, what consideration do you give to length? Do you have it all plotted out before you start? Or do you simply leave it in the hands of the literary gods?



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There was a bit of setting up to do, but everything was just about under control by the time guests started to arrive. I intended to do my reading at about half past two, but there were still people flocking in and lots of books to be signed, so it wasn’t until about 3 o’clock that I got a chance to read...

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Oh what fun it is prowling the corners of my imagination; the new book will be called DELILAH. I've had a great time building this plan and look forward to writing it in November; I wonder if I'll be able to write right through to the end - something I haven't done with any book yet but they were never planned to this degree. Maybe I should return to the others, waiting in the wings, and give them this treatment so that when I continue them they'll fly right off to the end.

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Whether the how-to-write books are warning you about how agonising but necessary these days it is to be a performing author, or whether they're (more rarely) warning you of the risks of becoming a performaholic, what they don't say is how much time, beyond the edges of the event, each one takes. I had the most delicious time at the Daphne du Maurier festival, down in Fowey in Cornwall: a lovely audience, great questions, a wonderful walk, but the domestic fallout is considerable, and the writerly fallout is not negligible either, not least because there are one or two things going on which I can't blog about yet.

So, meanwhile, here's what had me doing the Happy Author Dance round the kitchen, despite the kind of weariness only seven hours of even well-behaved trains (blame Dr Beeching and his predecessors) can make you feel. It was sent by a kind friend because I missed it. Note no. 24...

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A little like this, perhaps.

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I talked to spiders a lot as a child. My mother says how she would often find me holding one in my little girl hand, chatting away and telling it stories. A conversation with a spider is necessarily a one-sided affair, the lack of reply compensated for by their great hanging around listening abilities.

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And by 'all' what I really mean is the price of the limited edition 20 Photographs & 20 Stories book I've been working on, with Katherine Elizabeth Lewis, over this past three weeks.

So as long as the proof we see on Monday is okay we should have copies, actual copies, to send and sell and everything later next week.

And those copies will be priced at £14.

So if you'd like one, either drop me an email (by clicking here) or go to my online shop (by clicking here).

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In most professions, people don't see fit to comment on how you are doing your job. You might have an annual review, but that's, at most, a slightly uncomfortable hour with the boss. Your colleagues in the office don't tend to lean across their desks and deliver a devastating precis on your plus and minus points, and nor do complete strangers tend to tap you on the shoulder on the bus and say that they've observed you through your office window that afternoon and that they think they could have been doing a much better job in your place. And that's just how it should be. But for us writers, the world is a rather different sort of place - something that has been particularly brought home to me in the past couple of months. Yes, I'm talking about reviews.

Most writers, once they've plucked up the courage, show their work to a trusted friend or family member once in a while. But the harsh truth is that the vast majority of friends and family members don't really review our work. They read it, clouded by the knowledge that it has sprung from the pen of someone they will have to face in social situations for many years to come. Perhaps they're blinded by its brilliance, simply because they can't believe that someone they know is capable of writing a book. Perhaps they think it's awful, but can't bring themselves to blurt the words out. Either way, the end result is usually much the same: a bright smile, an enthusiastic "I really enjoyed it!" and perhaps a couple of diffident criticisms about the odd comma here and there before boomeranging back to praise. All very nice, but not perhaps a robust enough preparation for the big bad world out there when you become published.


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