Apparently, over eight million viewers tuned in to watch this week’s Question Time and the appearance of Nick Griffin, leader of the British National Party. This is an unprecedented number, particularly at a time when the public’s appetite to hear politicians say anything about anything is at an all time low.

I watched it eagerly myself, though I’m not sure why. Griffin sat like an over ripe Brie, all round, sweaty and unpalatable, while the politicians around him postured with a worthiness of a student union debate circa 1985. Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, out, out, out...





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On November 1st thousands of people around the world sit down to begin writing a book.
Actually, I’m pretty sure that folk do that every day of the year. What a thought. Someone, somewhere sat at their computer this morning and began the first line of the first chapter of what might be the next Da Vinci Code. Okay, let’s not start that one again.
Anyhow, November 1st is different to all those other days when random people begin writing random books ( which may or may not become best sellers) because it’s official.
November is National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo as it’s become known. The idea is that over 100,000 writers sign up on nanowrimo.org and begin work on November 1st. They then write like whirling dirvishes until Midnight on November 30th, by which time they will have 50,000 words.


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Last Friday I blogged about the criticism aimed at Dan Brown’s latest novel, The Lost Symbol.

The debate my post sparked was lively and enjoyable. I, for one, love nothing better than discussing the craft of writing with other writers.
But what became clear to me as the day wore on was that writers appear to fall into two camps. Those who believe that story is all and those that feel the style of a piece is what makes it sing.

To be fair, I’m sure most of us would say we aim for both...a riveting plot, well told.


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Can there be anyone in the world who has missed the hoo-ha surrounding the release of Dan Brown's latest novel, The Lost Symbol.

Booksellers across the land have been inundated with advance orders and queries about this most awaited of books. Sales are set to outstrip his previous block buster, The Da Vince Code with a first print run of millions.



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At a recent book reading and signing I was asked an interesting question. Frankly, any question is welcome over the sea of bemused faces that usually follow my reading an extract from my latest novel, which makes no sense out of context and has been expunged of all swearing, violence and spoilers. At that point someone asking the way to the loo is a godsend.
But I digress. On this occasion there was not only a question but a thoughtful one: as a child had I had imaginary friends?
I conceded that indeed I had, being an only child, had many.
The rather fearsome, elderly lady asking – for these are generally the ones with the cojones to pipe up at such gatherings. And bedraggled CW teachers. But they often just want to moan about the state of the publishing industry, how it no longer nurtures true artistic talent...


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Supermum Lawyer Writes Debut Novel - shrieks the headline. And there's my photo grinning inanely, a copy of Damaged Goods clutched to my heart.
I sigh.
Most mothers are delighted to find time to juggle work and kids but supermum, Helen Black, wrote her habulous new novel...
I sigh.
I look around the train wreck I laughingly call home. The twins were up til 4am projectile vomiting with a force and intensity of which Linda Blair would be proud.
Qulits, carpets and curtains are splattered. The only things not covered in the contents of my childrens stomachs are the bowls I left seide their beds 'in case of emergency'.
I sip a cup of hot water ( we've run out of tea bags ) and wonder if other parents let their children play football in their PJs. In the living room.
Having scored a hat trick Twin 1 bounds towards me. He's clearly recovered and waves his get out of jail free card - a letter from the school nurse prohibiting the return of pupils to lessons within 24 hours of the last 'episode'.
The phone rings. It's my publicist, Kesh.
'The post want an interview,' she says.
'Great.'
'This morning,' she adds.
I survey the devestation. 'Great.'
I turn to the kids and solemly tell them that if they help me clear up they can eat ANYTHING they want for breakfast. Naturally they're fluent in the internationally recognised language of junk food and begin to take down the goal posts.
'Chuck everything in the didning room,'I bark.
And with the flexibility of autistics they fling anything that is not nailed down. Lego starships, dirty socks, a music stand, all hurtle through the air.
With similar accuarcy I throw myself in a (cold) shower.
The kids demand their reward.
I proffer a packet of raspberry crunch cookies and wonder if counts as one of the five a day.
Twin 2 shakes her head. 'Fluffernutter sandwiches.'
For the uninitiated thisis the food of kings. The King, in fact, as Elvis would not have lived as long as he did if he'd discovered these babies.
Plastic bread ( what else ) smothered in peanut butter and topped with a liberal amount of marshmallows.
As the journalist and photographer arrive my children scurry to their room, fists clamped around their coronary inducing prize.
'So tell me, Helen,' asks the nice lady from the newspaper, 'how did you get to be such a supermum?'

'Happy New Year.'
I don't answer. The beaming presenter is calling out to her listeners, not me.
I've been asked to go on the radio to discuss the new book and read a piece. I'm so excited I trip over a cable snaking its way across the studio. The presenter gives me a look that would freeze medusa - but then I have just probably broken a piece of equipment worth thousands.
'Have I got a treat for you,' she chirps. 'A brand new novel that's gritty, gritty, gritty.'
I take a deep breath and try to put on the mammoth headphones.They slip down under my jaw but I'm not about to complain.
'This is gritty stuff. Gritty, gritty, gritty so don't read it at bedtime.'
I relax. At least she loves the book.
'And I don't know about you guys but can't wait to hear from the author right after this tune.'
I smile as she hits one of the buttons on the bank to her right. This is going to be great. No doubt she'll have some penetrating questions and we can discuss the story's themes.
'Listen, love,' she pushes away her mike. 'I haven't read it.'
'Ah,' I keep my rictus smile intact.
She sniffs. 'Not my cup of tea to be honest.'
As the music fades we are live on air.
'So, Helen,' she trills, 'tell us all about your book.'
'It's a thriller.' I gulp down my panic. 'About a lawyer who's client...'
'I bet,' she interupts. 'It's gritty, gritty, gritty.'
'Yes,' I say. 'Gritty, gritty, gritty.'

Mother in Yorkshire calls.
'I'm in the Supermarket,' she says. 'I thought they might have christmas cards on sale.'
This is my cue to reply in a seemingly intereted fashion that neither offends nor gives rise to lenghthy discussions about other items purchased at cut price.
'Guess what?' she says.
'They had advent calendars too?' I venture.
'Your book's on the shelf,' she shrieks. 'Five of them!'
Ten minutes later Husband in The City calls.
'I'm in WHSmiths,' he says. 'Guess what?'