When the hostel warden asked us, reasonably enough, ‘Will ye no’ be moving on to the Highlands?’ we assured him we were happy to walk the nearby Eildon Hills. They had been adored by Sir Walter Scott, who died at the house he built at Abbotsford, his sofa placed so he had a good view of them.


Read Full Post

Most historical novelists are probably familiar with the reaction: “Gosh, I could never manage all that research!” I wrote a post about this a while back on Picnic Publishing’s blog, so I won’t repeat too much of that. Instead, I want to talk about doing that research on the web.

Wait.. what!? Not… the internets? No!!! You can’t trust the Google! Argh!

Sometimes I sense that people don’t see internet research as the Real Thing. Unless you’re in the county archives trying not to get your greasy fingerprints on a 200-year-old manuscript, you’re not doing it right. Online research is for people who don’t care about accuracy, because the entire web is written by one pasty-faced 13-year-old American boy with no social skills and an unhealthy fixation on boobs.



Read Full Post

Real life = overload at the moment. Consequently, creative circuitry has been disrupted. Feel like a three pin plug in a two pin socket.[more ...]

Read Full Post

I’d wondered if I’d recognise Sarah.

The last time we’d seen each other was July 1987. I was all back-combed bleached hair pale-faced multi-earring-ed top-to-toe black-wearing Goth. Funky Town, Who’s That Girl, and Sinitta’s one-hit-wonder Toy Boy were riding high in the charts. The Pet Shop Boys were on the way back down from the top with It’s a Sin; we were just about to hear Rick Astley’s Never Gonna Give You Up for the very first time.

I’ve been on several blind dates* over the last few months and have certainly had a few butterflies on each occasion; that I was nervous going to meet an old school friend caught me by surprise.

Read Full Post

It reminded me of watching films in Singapore, where whole scenes were cut out for censorship reasons, regardless of how it affected the plot. We saw Jodie Foster in ‘The Accused’, for instance, and the rape scene was cut. One minute she’s dancing to a juke-box in a café with some boys looking on and the next she’s hysterical and Kelly McGillis is encouraging her to take them to court.For looking???


Read Full Post

I have never been one of life's more patient souls. A supermarket queue of more than three people can get me tapping my feet and sighing with exaggerated despair. I hardly ever buy off the internet, as I find the thought of having to wait three days (and I think I'm being generous to Royal Mail there) for a package to land on my doormat frustrating in the extreme. I often have to fight the temptation to finish slow-talking people's sentences for them, regardless of whether or not I know what they are actually going to say. As a child, I was once heard to utter the dreaded "Are we there yet?" before I had even got into the car. So what does all this prove, aside from the fact that my family and friends must be pretty patient themselves to put up with me? Well, the damning truth is that despite being a writer, I really don't have the temperament for it…. because writing, you see, is All About The Waiting.

Take the "simple" act of writing a book in the first place. Admittedly the only person you're waiting on to finish the damn book is yourself, but by God, I sometimes feel like shouting at my own fingers as they hover hesitantly over the keys, fluttering feebly with pent-up phrases. Come on! Just type a word – anything! And then repeat that 80,000 times… Writing a novel is playing the long game, and for someone who can't even get through the Easy Level Sudoku without losing interest, that's a challenge in itself. When I wrote my last novel, the whole thing was as clear as day in my head from about 10,000 words onwards. I could almost read it word for word in places – and yet I still had to write it all down. Surely there should be some kind of thought-reading machine that can do that for you by now? Yes, I get impatient with science and technology too.

.....

Read Full Post

One of the members of my writing group brought in a clipping from the Telegraph, which said that parents weren't reading traditional Fairy Tales to their children because they're too scary or not PC. I'll not moan, but I do wonder whether it's the mums who think these stories (which have, let's face it, been around for a long, long, time) are scary. And some of them are. But being scared isn't a bad thing to learn/come to terms with. Neither is learning that stories are stories, that when the book's closed the story's over (except the occasional one which keeps you up all night!) and that, usually, the nasty people get what they deserve. Anyway, enough of that. I'm sure you can all make your own minds up. And, of course, what's read to someone's child is their business. As long as something's being read to them then I'm happy. Not that it's my business.

Anyway. This led to another member telling us a true story. I thought it was funny enough to share. So here it is.

Someone was reading a group of young children The Three Little Pigs. This was a new story to one of the boys, clearly

Read Full Post

I am signing up for a promotion drive with Lollypop which bodes well for the future, I received my first EVER royalty cheque which was a massive achievement and I have already had a letter published (in Mslexia) this year! Plus I am feverishly researching and note-scribbling for the new novel (and I will tell you more about that soon, as well). My plan is to keep the momentum going and make this the Year of Me. I am recommending that everyone I know does the same!


Read Full Post

When I stood on the threshold of a new year twelve months ago, there were two sets of personal ticker tape uncoiling from me in opposite directions. One of them was written in indelible ink and attached at the other end to an anchor, way out of sight and in the past; the other was fresh and blank and streamed freely and unfettered into the future.


Read Full Post

Mr Whicher should keep his suspicions to himself to avoid being vilified by the forelock-tugging journalists of the time.


Read Full Post