When someone asks me what I do, and I say I'm a writer, they're usually mildly interested. When we've established that I'm not a journalist but write novels, they're slightly taken aback and slightly impressed, and though of course that's slightly gratifying, I still find it more than slightly odd. The thing is, while I recognise that not everyone wants to or can sit down and write novels for as long as it takes to learn how to do it, telling stories is obviously as fundamental a part of human nature as bringing up children, or hunting and gathering, or searching for meaning beyond the visible. And while the novel is only one manifestation of that narrative nature, my writing (anyone's writing) is simply a rather strenuous effort at something that every storied creature needs done for them, and most do in some way.

According to Marriott, psychotherapists believe that 'narrative competence' is a hallmark of mental health: "If one can tell the 'story' of one's own life in a way that makes sense of one's fears and anxieties, this will in itself make life's difficulties seem less opaque and frightening." The novel is a form born out of the need to "make sense" of the reader's individual world, by spinning new narratives out of individual lives, because the Renaissance and its offspring, peace, print, Protestantism, and the scientific revolution, had altered the relationship God to individual humans.

Yes, 120,000 words of plausible invention takes a bit of inventing.

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Everyone who has ever written something and asked another person to read it – whether it be husband, friend, agent or publisher – knows that the worst thing about writing is not the lardy bum from too much sitting, or the neck and back ache. It’s not even the writer’s block.

It’s the waiting.

Writerly waiting is a whole other ballgame from waiting, say, in a bank queue, or for the gas engineer who said he’d be there between 8am and 6pm and it’s now 10pm. I’m not saying these irritations aren’t enough in themselves to make you want to claw your own eyes out if you’re naturally impatient, as I am.

But when you’re waiting in a bus queue, your only concern is that your time is being wasted. When you’re waiting to hear an important decision about your writing, your entire ego and self worth are being suspended by gossamer threads over a tank of sharks. You might say I’m exaggerating here. I say, you haven’t met me and are therefore not aware of the fragility of my ego and ludicrous emptiness of my self worth tank.


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A friend of mine has an annoying habbit. She constantly refers to everything as "delicious", "lush" or "perfection".
"Nice day?"
"Delicious" is the reply.
or...
"You look delicious" she says.
or...
"My day has been perfection"
"The weather is lush"
"Ah, I have had a delicious evening"....

Now my initial thoughts were - Oh, you are so annoying with these repetitive words, but then I started to think. . . She is happy, outgoing, and has an infectious laugh and smile - Maybe it's just me thats grumpy! and its probably the latter!
Have your friends got any annoying or happy phrases?

Inspiration comes in many forms, and in many ways - How do you find your best inspiration? I find that I am at my most creative when I am walking the dog in the woods - just me, the dog and nature - Its lush!

If you don't write, then read. If you do write, then read more!

My daily word count has improved and finally I am glad that I have found more time to write. The problem is that I am writing stories, memoirs and general things but my writing course has taken a back seat - In fact it is in the boot. I feel that I am on a roll, enjoying my writing but feel guilty that my writing assignments for the course are getting behind! Now do I continue write my heart away? - or do I settle down for an hour to completed the writing assignments which require some factual articles?

There's plenty in Neil Simon's play to chime with big-city dwellers and fans of with Woody Allen's films, replete with funny one-liners, and a hopeless shmuck in the lead. It's Death of a Salesman territory without Arthur Miller's gift for social analysis, or Alan Ayckbourn's plays transported to New York without the experimental approach to drama. Neil Simon's hero is not so much a victim of a situation as a whinger whose life fails to match his over-inflated hopes.



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I don't really think my dog is speaking to me today. Dragged out of his bed WAY too early as I wanted to sit by the river and see if the otters would reappear. DVD camera in hand...dressed for the blustery weather...but nothing. Took pity on the moping mutley eventually as it started to rain and he was looking miserable.

Consolaton was sight of a pair of green woodpeckers and although bright and vivid birds, not really a substitute for the otters.

Never mind. Perhaps tomorrow...

I have a job that is unlike the profession of many of the people who contribute to Strictly Writing – can you guess what it is? Here are some clues . . .

I’m paid to invent characters and conjure up interesting settings and then write about them. I have to dream up plausible and lifelike situations into which to put the characters. It’s important that there should be tension and conflict in what I write and that the people who read it should not be able to guess what happens to the characters or what their true motivations are from the start. Often the characters are eventually played by professional actors and the whole drama is filmed.


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