tears refuses
someone like me
some people like us
as if
them tears
became
sick of running
through our faces
they do not want to dry
them our eyes
they
became
dry like a big desert
we do still
feel the pain
just like you
eventhought
the desert is spreading

Knock
Knock
and Knock
I am knocking
at the door
to my soul
maybe
someone
will hear me
will understand
Darfur
pain

I've just realised that this is my hundredth blog post, so thank you to everyone who's dropped by, read, commented, linked, or just said something that got me intrigued and sent me over here to work out what I think. For example:

Poet Sheenagh Pugh has been blogging here about Linda Grant's piece in The Guardian that also set me off on Rogues and Vagabonds. It's apparently even harder to persuade readers of poetry that the persona in the poem is not the poet, than it is to persuade the readers of novels that the author made it up. And then on Friday I had a drink for the first time in ages with a short story writing friend. She has an extremely high-powered professional life and a large family, and she writes strange, dark stories which don't spring directly from her everyday life, and would completely change how people saw her if they read them. So she writes under a pseudonym, and I sympathise hugely with that, and not just because negotiating contracts is hard to do with someone who's read your stories of... well, that would be telling.

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Have spent most of the day having a wonderful time at the launch party for Jackie's new novel, Tainted Tree. A humdinger of a read, if you haven't realised that before, and well worth the purchase! The food was wonderful, the guests lovely and, pleasingly, we sold £400-worth of books, so that was a serious result, hurrah! Many thanks, Jackie, for putting on such a great party.

Talking of books etc, I seem to have had huge numbers of people visit either my blog or my website over the last couple of days, with a massive 123 hits to the site yesterday. Well, gosh. Can't imagine what's suddenly made me quite so popular, but welcome anyway - it's lovely to see you all. Even if only virtually ...

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So, sometime next week I have to spend lots of time lounging around Waterstones with piles of animal psychology/behaviour books and Earl Grey. Oh it’s a hard life indeed; my very bad guy from the Josie & Rita novel is going to be some kind of expert on both. I’ve just been reading Susan Hill blogging about writing in cafes, but there’s no need for me to report on Costa because it’s the same all over and everyone knows that Waterstones is Paradise.

Interesting week coming up then, and TopCat is going into heat, see the vibrating tail! She’s vocal again, and rubbing herself on anything that’s not flat; my old shoes; bags; tables; my feet; and don’t forget the galloping through the flat in the middle of the night, leaping across me in my bed, up onto the windowsill above my head, THUMP, down again. For a little cat she makes some noise landing on the floor.

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Played golf with Marian this morning - in an unexpected burst of sunshine too, which was lovely. I think also that other people must have feared rain and stayed away, as there was virtually nobody on the course but us. Bliss. Mind you, my game was rather up and down. Some great shots and some horrors. But I was hugely pleased with my enormously long one putt at the 4th. Now that's golf. I can wear a smug smile all day.

Or I could have done, if Godalming hadn't been packed with obstacles. Most of them other people, dammit. Though that said, the incident in Between The Lines was entirely of my own making ...

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Didn't I say that May was my month? The biggest crime agent in the country wants to see my novel the minute it's finished.

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Well, this is more of a pre-shed update. Here is the area of our tiny garden that my writing shed is destined for...

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Readings from "Letters From Portugal"
on you/tube. com/user/345 bambi
on video number nine

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MOTHER and DAUGHTER

D: 26.10.07 at 12.06 - Mum, what the heck am I doin. I can’t even get the court date rite. Wats gona happen now – it just feels like I’ve already lost him. I’ve got nufin. A wana just curl up n die.

D: 26.10.07 at 16.24 - Sorry 4 yellin at u mum, a don’t know wats the matter with me. I’m going now to collect jack. X

M: 26.10.07 at 16.41 - I understand. Don’t make a habit of it. Try not to worry.

D: 27.10.07 at 12.10 - Hi mum, gona do me a fava n loan me £25 til tues, a need to get gas n fags n sum food, n I was gona take jack 4 a mcdonalds. I’m in bed now – horable headache.x

M: 7.11.07 at 11.40 - Anser ur bluddy fone.

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Over at Vulpes Libris there's an excellent interview with Susan Barrett, author of Fixing Shadows and The Inconstant Husband and, incidentally, a stablemate of mine at Headline Review. At one point she steps away from the questions and says, 'What fun writing this - it is a nice opportunity to post-rationalise, a bit of literary onanism.' Which made me laugh, but also got me thinking.

I guess whether we should pursue that precise analogy does depend on what you think of onanism as a form of pleasure, but post-rationalising is an interesting business. Yes, it's fun, though there are people who might say that writing 30,000 words of PhD commentary has to be the ultimate - um - well, you know what I mean. There's certainly a strong argument that, as Umberto Eco says in his essay 'Reflections on The Name of the Rose', 'The author must not interpret': that is, must not tell readers what to think of the book.

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