…but it pours.

Writers, in general, get very little support. Until we have something published, we're not really recognised, and even then, without monumental success in today’s competitive market, it can be tough. Time, as we all know, is the most essential thing to a serious writer, but to work and write is a delicate balancing act, mastered by the very few...

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I watched this guy the other night, working his way through a tv programme about penis size, penis envy and fear of what’s normal. He himself had come to terms with his 3 ½ inch member and even had a plaster cast made of the little beast. Apparently, he’s a comedian, so is dealing with his problem in public and trying to force other men out of the woodwork; there are thousands of them willing to chat, complain and moan about it online, incognito.

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In order to celebrate the completion of Clear History, Harper Collins has booked me into a studio for my official author photograph session. I stand in the middle of the white room which is unnecessarily huge and evaluate the lighting setup. Then I remember that I am a terrible photographer and look away.

When I finally read Chris’ alterations to the manuscript I was impressed and even a little jealous. His word choice and sentence structuring injected the text with an exhilarating sense of urgency that got me excited reading my own book. I emailed him and suggested he take another pass at it. “Feel free to make as many changes as you like,” I wrote. “You’ve greatly improved chapter twelve but I still think you can make it even better. Perhaps you could expand upon the themes you’ve introduced in chapter twenty-eight to show how certain characters are affected. Also, don’t forget you always wanted to make Agent Beechill’s entrance more heroic.”

When he simply replied – almost immediately – with “I HOPE AND PRAY TO EVERYTHING THAT IS HOLY THAT YOU ARE F***ING KIDDING ME” I wrote back refusing three of his word corrections that I picked arbitrarily from the text. I also pointed out a spelling mistake. He never got back to me and I discovered shortly afterwards that the spelling was, in fact, correct.


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Morag is the most Scottish friend I have; she’s spent years on the high roads and knows, intimately, every hill north of Glasgow – not that she’s climbed them, no, she just likes her haggis spiced with local gin...and there’s been a terrible dearth of those items in the recent past. She’s been in hospital for almost five months now, with not a drop of anything but water over her lips the whole time.

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Another manic weekend has drawn to a close..though I'm still feeling it!

My son's 3rd birthday dominated and we pulled it off on a shoestring..his Dad finished building the huge hand-made garage, the main present, at 10.30pm on Friday..and then it was down to me to paint it..I knew when the project started that I'd be up until stupid o'clock painting and varnishing in the half-light of energy saving bulbs..2.30am I finished it..well, the walls and road and grass were painted on..getting arty with it is for another day..


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So, finally, here are a few details about my recent gallivanting around the world. Well, England first. A wonderful time with my great writing friend Vanessa,who, the minute I arrived at her place an hour outside London informed me we were going back to London the next day to check out the venue for her immminent book launch. We had a great day, a private tour of the Foundling Museum, tea in a posh London hotel, drinks with another writer, B, and then back home to peaceful Sussex. Sadly, the photos of it all were on my mobile phone, which was stolen several days later, so you'll have to imagine it for yourselves.

Back to London and...

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I've got bloggers-block.

Ignoring it doesn't seem to make it go away, so I've decided to take practical action and Google "How to clear a blockage". Here's the advice:

1. Pour a bucket of warm water into the pan - from a height would be best. This often clears minor blockages.

Right, here goes with a warm gush . . .

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Delighted to see that Alex Beecroft, author of Captain's Surrender (a high-octane fun read!) has put a review of A Dangerous Man on the US Amazon site - and as they don't stock it, here's the review:

“A gorgeously written, tense and creepy book, combining a love story and an artist's passion for his work into a force that makes the narrator of the book a very dangerous man. Not for those who like their fiction fluffy, this is a real work of literature.”

Thanks, Alex! And I was trying so hard to be fluffy ... ah well ...

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Took advantage of the unexpected gap between bouts of torrential rain today to go for a walk around Ockham Common. Very nice it was too, although the noise levels from the M25 are pretty dire. Such a shame. Due to the wind, we didn't see too many birds either, though we did spot a kestrel (hurrah!), robins, chaffinches and something that Lord H said might have been a female blackcap (they're red on top, confusingly) - though I must admit I failed to notice that one. I also had a moment's sheer panic when my Wellington boots got stuck in what appeared to be a swamp, but Lord H nobly rescued me before the mud came up beyond my neck. Swoon! What a hero. I hadn't even realised we had swamps in Surrey ...

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I really have to say that yesterday's trip to the theatre to see Our Friends in the North was an utter disaster! It was dreadful. For a start it lasted nearly four hours with only one interval, all the characters were completely unappealing and we seemed to have the same short scene over and over again, only with different people in it. Um, yes, we caught on quite early that the theme was politics and corruption, but we didn't need to have that message drummed into us more than twice. And really there was no humanity in it. I do have to say that by the time we'd all dragged ourselves to the interval, we could take no more - so Lord H and I left in order to run, screaming, to the hills. We just couldn't face another two hours of it. There was one glorious moment though - when the woman in the scene just before half-time suddenly said, "Do you know? I think we've been here years. I'm terrified we'll never get to leave ..." and I don't really know whether that was scripted or not. Either way, I'm sure we all felt the same. Shakespeare it ain't ...

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