I had high expectations, extraordinarily high, due to having been spoiled - twice - by my stays at the Anam Cara writers retreat, and when you have such high expectations they are bound not to be met. Compared to Anam Cara I would describe La Muse more as "self-catering accomodation for writers and artists", which is different from a cushioned and all-catered retreat. It's not a place where you are allowed to think only of your writing, your characters, your plot knots and tangles - there are fires to be lit to keep warm, and three meals a day to be thought out. ....


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When you first start writing, it's wonderful: you're drunk on words, you're super-thin-skinned so you feel the brush of every idea and every emotion, you're obsessed with the magic of things in your head condensing, gaining colour and form, appearing on the page. You'll be seized with the passion at odd moments and have to run away and scribble. And then comes the point when something becomes big and important enough to need more: more work, more research, more planning and shaping and sitting down. Especially if it's a novel, it takes a lot of sitting down. It also takes a lot of ignoring of the voices (Anne Lamott's chattering mice) which tell you it's not worth it, you'll never be any good, it's old-fashioned or ahead of its time, you should be down the pub with your friends, or painting the sitting room, or whatever.

Then a new idea pops up so, since you're used to following new ideas and it might disappear if you don't, you divert and pursue that one for a while. Only inside the dark cupboard where you've left it the original One suddenly sprouts a bright new idea that demands to be followed, so you drop Two, and go back to it, but something you read for research gives you an amazing idea which can't be integrated into either, so Three is born, and so on. In the back of your head you know that at this rate nothing will get written, but, then, the chattering mice have said all along that it's not worth it, haven't they...

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Typical. The ruddy boiler waits till the coldest day of the ruddy year and then decides it's not working. Dammit. Ruddy cold in these parts therefore, Carruthers. Though it would, I think, be better if the boiler didn't on occasions decide that it could light up and give us a little lukewarm heat and water as we rush to make the most of its generosity. Which unfortunately doesn't last long, I am typing this in fingerless gloves and a scarf. Alongside my other customary fashion items, naturally ...


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I told R that as his ancestors were Welsh he could hardly claim St Pauls had been built on their bones. He said he meant his ancestors on the other side. As to that provenance I think I'll draw a veil.


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Taking my inspiration from the wonderful Emerging Writers Network, I thought I'd mention just a few of the sources of great writing I've been enjoying recently:....

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Lord H and I have spent a glorious day exploring the walks of Pulborough and also visiting Pulborough Brooks. We both managed to hold up under our various infirmities - me and my shoulder, and poor Lord H and his hand which he unfortunately gashed whilst washing up at work yesterday. It's a nasty wound for sure, though not very deep. Luckily we've got enough dressings and bandages to last till Monday when I can restock. Lordy, but we're lucky to be still walking, you know. Mind you, we had a bit of technical difficulty with Lord H's muffler - every time he lifted his binoculars to his eyes, he caught the scarf as well so ended up just staring at darkness. Ah, the trials and tribulations of being a birdwatcher are many and varied indeed. Once I'd stopped laughing, I did help him tuck it inside the fleece which meant it was out of harm's way - thus gaining valuable Wife Points which I will probably need to cash in later ...


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I got some photos through of last week's workshop at the People Show Studios. They were taken by John Lloyd Davies, our brilliant director and head of Opera Genesis at Royal Opera House 2. I hope they give you some idea of the workshop production.

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Have played my first round of golf with Marian since my shoulder disaster (I think I must now always hear that word in my head a la Craig Revel Horwood - disarrrster, dahlings, disarrrster ...) and it hasn't really gone too badly. Well, apart from the score of course. Neither of us were playing at our best but, hey, at least we got round relatively intact. I have to admit that my shoulder was aching a little before we started, but I took it as gently as possible and halfway through it actually appeared to be more mobile. Mind you, it's back to the same ache level now, so I'm not sure what that signifies. Best not lift any heavy loads this weekend then ...


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My poem, Slug, is now up over at the wonderful Pygmy Giant. Go see, folks.

Also, I think I'm quite tempted by these lovely looking handmade cards. I'm not really one for Christmas and all that, but they do look good.

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Thanks to Rod on WriteWords, I’ve discovered a new form of procrastination in BT’s Ask Emma feature. This is a great idea – BT punters can ask the creepy swivelly-eyed virtual assistant why their phone line isn’t working, and be reassured that it’s probably their own fault and it’ll cost them. And because this service is aimed at the fine, upstanding British public, BT can be confident that no one will ever type in rude words just to be stupid.

I started the conversation with a few gentle questions...


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