Cheetah's theme is sport's potentially awesome, frightening future and Beijing suggested itself as a good moment to start this blog-about-the-book – which in terms of timing my run now seems as smooth as Christine Ohuruogu's Gold medal race.
As an athletic spectacle these Olympics have had moments of wonder and some almost futuristic performances.

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We're all familiar with the red-jersey-in-the-crowd phenomenon, that once you start noticing something, the same thing seems to be everywhere. But this week I've had different things coalesce to the point where I'm thinking something entirely new. The fact that it links up with all sorts of things I've thought about for a while makes me think it might even be true (and explains all the links back to earlier posts!).

First, Dorothy L. Sayers The Mind of the Maker:

"the fact of universal experience [is that] the work of art has real existence apart from its translation into material form. Without the thought, though the material parts already exist, the form does not and cannot."

I know this one from my own experience, as I was thinking about in Bodies crying out. The nameless new novel does exist as a whole in my head.

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Was rather flummoxed yesterday when purchasing my rail ticket at Guildford Station when the woman behind the counter gave me a bright smile, was extremely helpful, smiled again and even wished me a good journey and a pleasant evening in London. Well, gosh! Not something that's ever happened before when travelling on Network South. It really cheered me and set me up for a wonderful evening (thanks, Jane W - lovely to see you as ever!). Though I have to admit my general bonhomie slid down a notch or two when I realised it was Guildford Station Customer Service Week. Ah well - I should have known it couldn't have been my own personal charisma (conspicuous as ever by its absence). Perhaps it could be Customer Service Week every week? It would certainly make travelling by train far more palatable ...


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First of all, a plug - Picnic Publishing wants to hear about your favourite picnic spots, picnic memories and recipes for a new website that will be a handy source of information about al fresco eating (if it ever stops raining).

They are looking for info on good places to picnic – not just in the UK but anywhere in the world – so go along to: www.picnicbooks.com and submit your favourite locations and anecdotes, or leave comments about the places already listed.

One ‘picnic’ place that I possibly won’t be sending in is the very chilly location where I scribbled some of the earliest draft of Kill-Grief...


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I've just realised that The White Road and Other Stories is going to be published in 11 days. 11 days. I am not sure what to make of that. I have a strange tingling, vaguely nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach. And, also, I am grinning. Different parts of my body are reacting in different ways....

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Well, now that I've finally pinned down some of the difficulties of using real historical people in A Secret Alchemy, for a Vulpes Libris piece, it's got very late. I've rather run out of time and brainpower to post what I was planning here, so, sorry, that'll have to wait a day or two.

Meanwhile, Vulpes Libris are having a Richard III week. My post is called Writing Wrongs to make A Secret Alchemy and the other posts look as if they'll make a classic VL mixture of thoughtful booky talk coming from all sorts of angles.


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Managed to do nearly a whole scene in Hallsfoot’s Battle last night, so it looks like I’m back in the saddle, hurrah. For now anyway. Meanwhile in the office there are no polylopes sweeping over the horizon today as far as I can see, so I kept my head down and got on with the Nursery Group minutes. Which I have more time to do as Lord H gave me a lift into work early as I’m off to London tonight, so don’t want to be bothering with the car ...

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I'm feeling a bit peed off. I got in yesterday after a really nice first time meeting with writer friends from Writewords, my online writing group, and my agent had emailed to say I had an audition for a tour which I can't do because it's September to March, the worst possible time to try and take time off school.

If it was a one off I wouldn't have minded at all. But it's part of the bigger problem of not being available enough to take work. I've already lost one agent that way, would rather not lose another if I can avoid it. So, what to do?

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Feeling rather drained today and am hoping to lie low at work and not get involved with anything. Or anyone. So no change there then. In fact Lord H and I are thinking of starting up our own secret Hermits’ Society – it’s just a shame we probably can’t ask anyone to join, as it would rather defeat the object. Ah well.

In the midst of all that, I’m vaguely wondering about writing a long poem. Not something I’ve ever tackled before, or even thought of – as my usual approach is that if a poem doesn’t say what it wants to say in the first ten lines then it’s not worth reading on. It’s only a vague thought though, but we’ll see. UPDATE: I've started something, am quite enjoying it and will see how it goes ...


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For some time I've been wanting to write fiction based on the Picts, whose kingdom encompassed most of Scotland in the Dark Ages. Until now, however, I've struggled to think of a way to introduce them. They remain a relatively obscure race from a shadowy time. I think the following piece solves this problem.

What I'd love to know is does it evoke the time, place and people intended? Is it clear we're in post-Roman Britain, I suppose, is the most important question. Thanks.




“Stone,” said the old man, as he scooped up a handful of pebbles in one hand and let them trickle down into the other, “our old friend.”
He repeated the motion without dropping one, as effortlessly as if he were playing with flour. “Stone to the west holds those wretched Gaels back,” he said, letting a few pebbles fall from his hand to form a line on the ground. “Mountains.”

“And to the north,” he continued, dropping another line of stones on the ground, “more mountains – keeping the folk of Fortriu at bay.”

“But aren’t they Picts like us?” asked the boy.

The man scowled and tossed a pebble that struck the boy lightly on the forehead.

“Oww,” he protested.

“You’ll get worse from others if they hear that word from your lips. We are the Pritani, those in Fortriu too, but we are often at war with them.

“Picts are what the Romans called us. It meant painted savage… something like that. Use that word here or up north and they’ll treat you like a Roman; lop your head off and mount it on a stick.

“Stone was the Romans’ downfall as well you know,” he said after a pause. “We’d lure their legions deep into the mountains and then come tearing down the slopes at them like a rock-fall.

“They had to build two huge walls in the end to hold us back.”

The boy laughed bashfully and looked away.

“The other use stone has,” the man said, fingering the last remaining pebble in his hand, “is that it remembers us when we’re gone.” With that he flung the pebble and it struck a great sandstone slab engraved with strange symbols which stood behind the boy.

“And,” he said, as he looked down at the game board that lay on the ground between them, “today stone is a friend to me indeed.”

“You have three of my playing pieces but of yours I have formed two mountain chains and had two left over to throw. I think that means I’ve won.”