1993 (from my journal, still on the train)

‘There’s the sea!’ Amazon stands up. We’re coming up to Berwick. I like the coastlines; see myself as The French Lieutenant’s Woman, standing on the edge of land, pointing my tragic but beautiful face out to sea, watching for my future, waiting for something to happen. I want a house where the air is on the move: not stagnant. Well-travelled air and a great expanse of sky. Sometimes I stand on the pier at Tynemouth, looking out to sea. I’ve never been further than one night in Amsterdam.

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Had my scan at the Surrey Park Clinic today, which wasn't as terrifying as I'd feared - but I gather that I will probably have to go back in fairly soon to talk about it. Nothing drastic, I hasten to add - but I anticipate a change in my hormones treatment is in the offing. Oh lordy, not another one!

I've also done some essential shopping in order to get three sad-meals-for-one for this weekend, as Lord H is away on a course. Goodness me, but the flat seems quiet right now. I suspect I will have to turn on the TV fairly soon, just in order to fill the space. That said, and while I miss him like crazy, I'm sneaking in a secret curry tomorrow while the chance is there - though I must remember to open the windows afterwards in order to hide the evidence. Lord H Doesn't Do Curry ...

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Ok, here's the thing: how do you KNOW that you can write? I mean really write. Write in a way that you can start to think, "Hey, I might be able to make some kind of a living out of this..." (Don't get me started on writers' earnings...).

To my mind, it's the second book that tells you whether you have a chance in the game or not.

First books tend to 'write themselves' to some extent. It's the exciting adventure of finally putting those thoughts and plans that have been swimming around inside your mind that makes writing your first book such a joy. Sure, you'll be beset with self-doubt and anxieties. Sure, you'll hit bumps in the road where you think that the book is coming apart. But if the dream-genie is kind enough to keep whispering in your ear, the book 'happens'.

Second books are different. They're harder work. They demand more from you because you want them to be better than the first. And they beat you up more because all the time you're writing them, you can hear a snide little whisper in the back of your mind saying, "They won't like it. It's not going to be good enough."


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I wake up with a start and the doctor and Cheryl are sitting either side of my bed, watching me without concern.

“How are the McCanns doing?” I blurt out.

Cheryl sighs. The doctor is taken aback. “Err…Very well, I think.”

“They did it, you know.”

“Did what?”

“They did it.”

“I’d be careful what you say,” the doctor warned me.

“They did it. They cleared their name.”

“Oh. I thought you were going to say that they murdered little Maddy.”

“No, of course not. Of course not.”

“No. Although I think that they..."

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Sitting by myself, wearing white leggings and big T-shirt; bare feet up on the opposite seat, boots under the table, and a pile of library books. I’m watching a man with dark hairy arms. He has a pinky ring on his left hand, and a sturdy beard buried in The Scotsman. Long hairs seep out of the neck of his cotton shirt. I wonder about his hands, how the long fingers would feel on my neck, tangled in my hair. Men like women with long hair. The glint of gold on his collar bone brings me to my senses; I can’t bear a man in chains. A child is grizzling further up the carriage; please let them get off at Berwick.

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The proofs of A Secret Alchemy have arrived but, come hell or high water, Thursday is PhD day so I haven't looked at them properly yet. It will be interesting to go through them, because it must be a couple of months since I've looked at the actual text, which is probably the longest gap since I started writing it. For the commentary on it that I'm writing for my PhD, I'm in the odd position of noticing things as a student of literature that I never noticed when I was writing it. But for proof checking I need a completely different mindset:a cold, uninvolved eye that notices typos (increasingly rare thanks to spell-checkers), but also a mind making slightly more sense of it all, so that I see literals (not rare at all because spell-checkers are blind to homophones and textual idiocies) and slips of typography - the italics that bleed on even when the quoted letter is done, the missing squiggle between two voices - that only I will recognise. Now that teaching and marking at Goldsmiths is done with, it's all less panic-stricken, but I still found myself noticing with slightly wary interest just how many different elements make up a week of the writing life:

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Delighted to find that the lovely Rosy Barnes at Vulpes Libris has just uploaded my article on self-publishing (see full post for links) and that already it has inspired a lot of really interesting and thought-provoking comments. Including one from the great G P Taylor himself. Well, gosh. I always wanted to include myself in the same paragraph as a New York Times bestselling author, and now I have! My work here is done, Carruthers. Thank you and goodnight. Seriously though, do have a read and let me know what you think. My feeling is the times are most definitely a-changing and self-publishing is long overdue for a serious rebranding in the minds of the publishing world. Long long overdue. After all, readers don't have a problem with self-published books, so why the hell should the book world?? Food for thought anyway, I hope ...

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Following on from yesterday's post, I'm thinking about the rubbish that is written about Writing and Writers. In particular, I am struck by what a load of old bollocks it is to be told "Write What You Know". Why? I don't read what I know. The opposite, in fact. I read to experience the widest possible range of emotions and to learn, to broaden my horizons. Why, then, shouldn't I write for the same reason, with the same objective?


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I really don't get it. How come I have to have a major clear-out every few months just so I can get into my study and write? I filled a huge black sack with unwanted rubbish a couple of evenings ago and produced a bin and a half full of shredded letters, receipts, circulars - all of which had mysteriously accumilated in my little sanctuary of creation without my knowledge. Having made it a safe and clear space again, my intention last night was to go in and write, write, write. So why did I spend the evening watching Tom Hanks in Castaway on BBC 3? Okay - so it just happens to be one of my favorite films and he just happens to be (in my humble opinion) one of the world's most talented and enduring character actors (and a personal favorite of mine I have to admit). But I have the DVD sitting up on the shelf, so why watch it on TV?. Curiouser and curiouser, said Alice

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