I've never skied in my life. Quite frankly, the weather here is rubbish, and once September arrives, I count down the days until mid to late March when we are promised at least a little bit of sunshine and warmth. I have an extreme dislike of cold weather, but watching the winter Olympics in Vancouver, coupled with enjoying the gorgeous scenery in Sky HD, has inspired me to want to be the next British skeleton champion. The speed, the exhilaration, the excitement, and even the wait as you take your place on the starting line at the sliding centre is just like writing a novel. Our experiences are not much different - both the athlete and the author have desires to be the best at their game and nothing stops them in the quest for that number one position.

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When I received an email over a year ago from You Write On saying they wanted to publish The Chronicles of Joya via a grant from The Art’s Council, my husband jumped around the room. I held back. I’d allowed myself to get excited over such things before and landed with a thud on Reality Earth that had left bruises the size of plates on my behind.
When Bloomsbury had read the first five pages of the book and asked to see the first three chapters, I didn’t sleep for a week. When an agent told me on the phone that her daughter loved my book and read it in a day, I let out a yelp. She popped the air out of my balloon when she continued with 'but your book doesn’t fit with my catalogue'. Even though she thought it was great and that I should definitely pursue other agents, it hurt. I’d so wanted her.


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Oh, how I love a good writing course.
They’re an opportunity to learn about the craft, to pick up tips from people in the know and to mix with like-minded folk. They’re also, if I’m brutally honest, a nice break from the everyday business of kids, work and walking the dog. As for the residential ones – they're even better. I’ve never been on a week long Arvon course [family, dog and job would not make the space for that quite yet] but I’ve been on two short courses through Cornerstones, which were worth every penny. I’ve also done a couple of evening classes through the London arts based body Spread the Word, run by the wonderful writer [and teacher] Maggie Gee.


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The other day, at the end of a class, we were talking about what writing each of us had on the go at the moment, and one member said that he had a couple of really compelling ideas - the sort of idea which is a cluster of an images, resonances and sounds - but they didn't seem to lead anywhere. He couldn't see what they were the beginning of, or how to develop them: he'd tried all sorts of techniques and ideas, and they led nowhere. And in a rare moment of inspiration, I suggested that maybe they weren't the beginning of a story, they were the end. Or maybe the middle, I said tentatively, as he looked struck all of a heap. But no, he said, at least one was definitely an end: his writing-cogs were already beginning to turn fast enough to tell him that.

This isn't a student who's new to the whole thing, but one who's been writing for some time, and done high-level courses. The basic creative writing dynamic of starting with a kernel and growing it makes a lot of sense, but where does the assumption come from, that one's always developing forwards?

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I've always been interested in graphology, or the science of discerning character through handwriting.It's fascinating to see how it applies to Chinese calligraphy, especially that which has been consciously developed as an art form.


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A book develops a life of its own once it’s published, and you don’t know who, if anyone, will pick it up and read it. One of the things that worried me as a new author was the thought that some readers might be upset by things in my book, Numbers, which were too close to home. Although the basic premise of the book – that a girl can see death dates in other people’s eyes - requires a suspension of disbelief, I tried to make the rest of it contemporary and relevant. But then I worried that it might be too relevant, and could upset someone who’s in foster care, facing serious illness either their own or of someone close to them, a victim of a terrorist outrage, or whose parents have died.


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I write early in the morning, after rising out of my bed and refreshing myself in the shower. On these occassions I will only have about two hours, as have to leave for work at 8am. After a day working, I pop to the gym on my way home and start writing around 7pm for several hours. My note book accompanies me throughout the day which I use to note anything of interest, ideas or descriptions that I witness or think of. I find that I write better in the evening, whilst sat at my desk in my bedroom. I write in silence, but often ideas materialise whilst I am talking to people, or busy shopping. I can not write with the television on, or with people in the room.
I am not lacking ideas, maybe just a little time. My aim is to write full time, but at the moment, as many writers still need to work. Perhaps the next step is to work part time, so I can increase my writing hours. I write about 1500 words a day and would love to increase this.
I am curious as to writers habits. You may be a full or part time professional, published, novice looking to be published or a writer that enjoys it as a hobby. How do you best find inpiration? Where do you write the best work? In what conditions do you write best? Are you systematic to your approach or do you write as inspiration comes to you? If you have a little time, it would be lovely to hear about your writing habits.
Carlton Relf

Ruth's diary is the new novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw. She has decided to blog the novel in its entirety over the next few months, so you can read it for free.

Ruth's first entry is below, and you can continue reading tomorrow here.
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These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It’s a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we’re being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.
The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they’re stuck to the outside of her hands. They’re a colour that’s difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.
I’m trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I’m giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don’t think I’m alone in wondering whether it’s all worth it. I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I’ve heard the weary grief in my dad’s voice.


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"I've taken horrible liberties with folklore and mythology, but I'm quite unashamed about that, because British folklore and British mythology is a totally bastard mythology. You know, we've been invaded by people, we've appropriated their gods, we've taken their mythical creatures, and we've soldered them all together to make, what I would say, is one of the richest folklores in the world, because it's so varied. So I feel no compunction about borrowing from that freely, but adding a few things of my own."
J.K. Rowling

“To be honest, after our persistent ‘collaborations’ with Goya, we’re the last people on earth to claim the sanctity of authorship.”
Jake Chapman

The debate about the alleged plagiarism by J.K. Rowling continues to rage. I’m no expert on copyright, but I have an interest in the matter. My creative drive, you see, is in taking work that already exists and making something new out of it.


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When you spend as much time propping up the bar as I do, sooner or later you're bound to come across some joker with an attitude. Ahem. This week it was my turn to be on the receiving end, and naturally my sense of outrage and indignation knew no bounds, until I got to thinking what exactly it was that had caused me offence.

An opinion, aired in the spirit of lively debate, is one thing: if it's one I don't agree with I can argue with you, attempt to change your mind with well-deployed facts and dazzling polemic, or if it happens that your voice is louder (ahem again) I can choose not to challenge you and suggest we 'agree to disagree.'

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