A writer friend, doing the last big revision of her new novel, emailed to ask me what I think of present tense narratives. She's used it for the main-frame structure because it's a story of urgency, pressure on the main character and action, with excursions into the backstory in past tense. But a couple of her trusted readers have said they don't like it and think it would work better all past tense. It does seem to be a matter of taste, but equally that suggests that tense has a fundamental effect on how the story is read. Since I've been known to say I, too, dislike purely present-tense narratives, my friend asked me what I thought. And this is what I found myself saying:

"I'm not mad about whole novels in present tense, put it that way - and I do think it's largely a taste thing. I sometimes say that a solidly present-tense narrative makes me feel I'm being tapped repeatedly on the head with a teaspoon for the length of the novel. If there is a central problem, (and as the extract from A Secret Alchemy demonstrates, I use it myself and I don't think it goes without saying that there is a problem) it's that present tense is by definition unreflective.

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6S

A big thank you to Robert McEvily in New York for publishing 'Off the Wall', a small yet significant step off the road to obscurity.

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I'm not really sure I was fully in the mood for last night's concert, though I did think that the choir sang magnificently. Suffice it to say that Belshazzar's Feast isn't a piece I'd rush to turn the radio on for, but I have to admit it was a bold choice beautifully conveyed. Oh, and in case anyone's asking, I do think Delius is dull. Sorry, but that's just how I find him. If only A Walk to the Paradise Gardens could be remixed as a Jog to the Park, and I might be a tad less bored by it. Just a thought ...


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Lord H and I have spent the day wandering around Hampton Court Park and Bushy Park. And what wonderful sections of parkland they are. We managed to see the grey phalarope (see full post for links - well worth it as they're very nice birds!) that we went in search of very easily indeed, hurrah! And what a pretty and surprisingly small wader it is. Astonishingly tame too, but that appears to be the nature of phalaropes. They are the robins of the water world. So another tick for our new bird list, Other new birds and therefore new ticks to the list (gosh indeed!) included several red-crested pochards, and a veritable plethora of goldcrests. Which are delightfully small and a total pleasure to spot. We also caught sight of the usual suspects, including Egyptian geese, long-tailed tits, huge numbers of ring-necked parakeets (that now-typical south London bird) and a higher than usual amount of jays. Ooh, and plus a stonechat or two as well - which gave us great excitement when we thought it might actually be a whinchat, but 'twas not to be, alas. So nearly another new bird, but not quite ...


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Have been battling (sorry!) away at Hallsfoot's Battle again today, this time focusing on Ralph Tregannon and what's going on in the Lammas Lands. Well, I don't want to forget him entirely. He is key, after all. I suspect the encounter with the mountain dogs will strengthen his resolve somewhat - we'll see ... Anyway, it's another 1000 words in the proverbial bag, which brings me to 55,000 or so, so that can't be bad. After finishing the Ralph/evil dogs scene, I'm going to have to think about the Elders again. Not to mention the snow-raven's opinion so at least I'll have things to worry away at. Which is always good. And that damn bird always has an opinion or three, I can tell you ...


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Happy birthday to the terrific, the insightful, the wondrous place that is The Short Review. It's a great site. It really is. It's where I discovered Aimee Bender, and believe me, that'd be enough to make me love it on its own.

***

And this writing lark's a funny thing at times. Yesterday (or was it the day before?) I got three rejections in a row. Splat, splat, splat in my inbox. Bit disappointing because they were all from Good Places, but they'd come back quickly, they were polite and they were helpful (one even had readers' comments - brilliant). Still, you can't help but feel a bit miffed with three in a row. And then I got an acceptance, from another Good Place; it was the sort of email that'd brighten up anyone's day. The editor said she cheered when she got to the end because she liked it so much. It made me happy. Of course, I shall let you know when it's up.

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Faced with a long list of changes that (in theory) will take my book from 'good' to 'brilliant', I poured myself a large glass of Cab Sav and wondered again why I want to be a writer.

Because seriously man, this itch to write is like a curse. On days like today, I feel sure that I could choose to do anything else: cake baking, hat-making, belly dancing...even cleaning fish and be more in control of the time it would take to deliver a satisfactory outcome.

I mean, here I am with a head full of words, characters waiting to be written, stories aching to pour from my finger tips to the lap top, yet this running-about-town busy-busy living makes it so hard. I am running into coffee shops, sparking up the laptop to tap out fifty words then going on to something else. Lord knows why I'm not the fittest person I know with all that nonsense. Even with a team of foot masseurs and secretaries I'd still be exhausted.

But what's the alternative? I've tried the full time writing gig and it don't work. The only good thing about that period in my life was, the amount of time I was able to spend with The Child...but then I began to worry about cash....

Still, life is full of choices. And I choose scribbling. Morning, noon and night. I just need an average of 5 more hours in the day to write and do my job properly. It's not too much to ask for in the general scheme of things. Some people want botox and boob jobs.

Really, there should be a law against anything that stands in the way of someone's dream. There should be a law and a prison sentence. Hell, there should be cruel and unusual punishment involving, chilli and eyeballs,jeering crowds and wild drumming, grandmothers begging for forgiveness and new mothers swearing to protect their babes from such evil....

Someone on WW, who is way smarter than me, put it very eloquently: Writing is all about Time Time Time. That and a thick skin. And patience. And a gift for story telling. And writing. And reading. And you know what? When I'm in the zone and the words are arranging themselves so that the story plays out like a film with life-like characters and every single detail in sharp relief? Hooyah! When it's as good as that? Then writing is da bomb.

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This is the final cover for Changeling that has been created by the wonderfully talented Kev Walker (who also designed the covers for, among others, the Artemis Fowl books). He seems to have looked inside my head, and drawn the werewolf that lurked in among the shadows there, and I LOVE that hand that is holding on to the ledge.


I think that it is absolutlely tremendous, and was even more excited when I discovered that the background is to be on a foil, while the werewolf will be embossed - surely a cover that is going to be difficult to ignore.


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Two things happened in the last forty-eight hours which, of all the strands of the writing life, came from the two furthest apart threads you can imagine.

On Wednesday, just before midday, I put Radio Three on while I trundled through a pile of self-employed administration. I was knee-deep in receipts for coffee at Goldsmiths ("subsistence for professional training"), and packing up copies of A Secret Alchemy for all the members of the Richard III Society who ordered them after my talk ("stationery" "postage"). And then some gorgeous vocal music - brainy and sexy in the way only Baroque music can be, and Latin American baroque in particular - came to an end. The presenter quoted some of the text they'd sung, and there in her words was the new title for my new, nameless novel. These things arrive, something ordinary which is suddenly not ordinary at all. Sometimes I liken it to a halo, a mandorla, the glow round the Ready Brek kids. But that's not how it feels, that's just a language to explain it. I grabbed a pen and pressed Rewind on the radio.

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I've been keeping it in for three months and now, finally, I can announce: I am the European regional winner of the Commonwealth Broadcasting Association's short story competition........

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