Longlist

This is exciting. I'm on the Guardian's 'Not The Booker' longlist. As voted by readers who nominated any eligible books. So it's an extremely long list - 47 I think - but there I am, and voted for by some very nice person with excellent taste who I don't know. Always faintly surprising to remember that people I don't know read my books. And he runs a bookshop. (If you're reading this - thank you very much.) My local lovely little independent bookshop are great supporters of me too. Maybe I appeal to bookshop owners. Of course the likes of Mantel, Coetzee and Byatt are also on this list, but I hope they're not too intimidated by joining me. My own feeling is that people should get hold of the books they'd never heard of previously, the ones starved of publicity, probably from small publishers like, I don't know, Salt, they should read them and then, if they enjoy them they should vote for them and encourage all their friends to do so. But that may be just me.

Horror

Waiting for Storylines. Should be working on a short story, or the radio play idea I'm going to submit soon, or the novel, but I'm not. Difficult to focus on that sort of thing when Storylines are looming.

I was in London for a couple of days this week. Lunch with my agent at Tate Britain. Saw a bit of Rothko and Turner side by side, which was fascinating. 'That man obviously learnt a lot from me,' Rothko said. Also saw 'Classified' with Hirst and the Chapman brothers, and others whose names I don't know, which was surprisingly coherent and engaging and generally good. surprisingly because I'm very sceptical about all that stuff. I enjoyed the room full of metronomes, and the big cabinet containing artefacts (old plastic bottles etc) found on the Bankside dig.

And then my agent told me TV drama had never been in such an awful state. As in, no one's commissioning. Or if they are, only from very established names. Nothing new there I suppose, but it did all sound a bit apocalyptic. He recommended low budget films, so that's what I'm thinking about now. Maybe genre. Low budget British horror. That's a fun area to explore.

And then a party at an astoundingly posh house in Holland Park, which I was taken to by the person I was staying with in London. William Boyd was there. Did I talk to him? No. Would have liked to, because I enjoyed Any Human Heart very much, and have read him on and off ever since The Ice-Cream War, but I didn't because he was surrounded by people, and I'm sort of rubbish like that. It was all in aid of an excellent charity called Room to Read. Google it - it's great.

Time to check if Storylines have arrived ...

Facebook

Having said I’d have nothing to do with it below, ('vain ... odd ... young') I’ve quickly succumbed. Friends told me it would help sell the book. I’d create an Event, everyone would read it. Salt said the same. Well, maybe some time. At the moment I’m playing Scrabble. That’s what Facebook’s for, as far as I can see. Playing with three friends, keep checking back instead of working, feel it luring me now. Also played UNO with Daughter against Jelena and El Guaro, whoever they might be, which was fun. And have dipped toe in Poker. Games are what life’s for, surely, where we become ourselves and also, occasionally, forget ourselves. I’m sure that should be love, and sex but … no … it’s games.

Then there’s the friends issue. I currently have eight, which I believe is pretty paltry. Eight good friends in the neighbourhood isn’t too bad I think, if you live in a small town, but eight on Facebook is like ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ And one of them isn’t a friend at all, and I sort of wish they’d go away. But two are people I haven’t talked to in years and am enjoying being in contact with, and one of them I instant messaged with/to, which I’ve never done before. And he said he'd buy the book. So that was exciting.

So that’s me surfing the cultural wave then. Although obviously if I’ve finally grabbed my surfboard and stumbled into the sea and climbed on and wobbled my way out of my depth, then the wave is certainly elsewhere and I’m paddling about in yesterday’s stagnant backwash. Still … Scrabble.

Bigger

Haven’t been anywhere this week, hardly seen anyone, it’s been a week spent entirely on The Show. Two edits and a new episode to work on. Sat at my desk, tussling with the best way to turn a phrase, to convey a story beat without being too on the nose, to find some texture in a plotty scene, to make it funnier. One of the edits has been heavy. No, they said, make it bigger. More twists and turns, more impact. Emotional explosions. Bigger. I may have said before, The Show is all italics and exclamation marks, it’s in bold and capitals. That’s what life is often like on The Show. It’s seldom like that in my stories and novels. It tends to be a more normal typeface, quieter, emotions simmer beneath the surface, only occasionally flare up, explosions are mostly avoided. For me, that’s like life. (Sitting at my desk, working with words. Putting the kettle on is a big event.) But I think we’re both right, me and The Show. Life after all, is a bit of this and also a bit of that, mixed, stirred and heated, with secret ingredients sprinkled in. Close your eyes, inhale the steam, see what happens. It’s mysterious. People, and marriages, turn out not to be what you thought they were. Your own body turns out to be hiding dark secrets, waiting for the right moment to reveal them. Peel back the surface and reveal … something else. That’s what we’re all trying to translate, on to the page, or on to the screen. So not a bad week. And on Sunday I’ll go to LaserZone with Daughter, and shoot people.

Clockless

You know the drawing in pencil, or maybe charcoal, by Lowry, of Manchester Central Library? There was a print on the wall of my parents’ house when I was growing up. It’s a lovely picture, very simple, of this elegant, round edifice on St Peter’s Square. A slight hint of a UFO about it, or a wedding cake. I think in the drawing the library is less hedged around by other buildings than it is now, I have a sense of it standing alone. Anyway, that’s where I was last Thursday night, reading from TENDER, launching it, in a room that followed the slow curve of the building. The walls were covered not with pictures, but with wooden notice-boards inscribed with long lists of names in gilt letters. Chair of the Library Committee, Councillor So and So. And above the notice-boards there was a hole in the curved wall with wires sprouting from it, where a clock used to be. It had gone to be mended apparently, which felt appropriate. Time had stepped discreetly out of the door. I read a story (sort of) inspired by my teenage years to (mostly) strangers, sitting inside a picture from childhood, surrounded by the names of the dead. And felt a rare sense of aptness.

Halfway Down The Stairs ...

Spent two and a half hours on Leeds station, waiting for my mother, who was stuck just a few miles away behind a broken down train, waiting for a third train to come and rescue it. Browsed Smiths, M&S food store, Boots, sat with a coffee and an almond croissant, fed the meter in the car park, browsed Smiths again, sat and watched trailers for a Clive Owen thriller on the big screen. I like stations. The sense that you all have a more or less common purpose, and you’re neither here nor there, suspended in time. Halfway down the stairs is a place where I stop. Tried to think of books set in stations, or scenes in books. Remembered watching The Odessa File as a kid, Jon Voight … pushed under a train in a German underground? An American Werewolf in London, the businessman being stalked in the tube. That fabulous scene in one of the Bourne thrillers, at Waterloo station. The Guardian journalist - Paddy Considine? – getting shot. The Railway Children of course, but I never read it, only saw the film. The figure appearing out of the steam, ‘Daddy, my daddy’. But books … my mind’s gone blank. Or it’s been colonised by big, brash films, pushing all the books out. Graham Greene wrote Stamboul Train, didn’t he? That must feature some stations. Anyway, my mum arrived eventually, so our stalled lives coughed back into action and continued, and continue.

King's Lynn

On the road again … The King’s Lynn Fiction Festival. An hour in a school, with not very responsive teenage boys, a panel discussion about whether literature should civilise, educate or neither, (short answer – both, through the medium of empathy), a reading from the new book (TENDER, published by Salt – I may have mentioned it), and a panel discussion around six Desert Island books. Lovely weekend. Well, lovely maybe wouldn’t be the word for the school. One boy proudly told me he’d never read a book in his life, which surprised his teacher, since he’s doing English GCSE. And he’ll probably get a decent pass too. Rest of the weekend though – lovely is the right word.

We were met on the station, Friday lunch-time, by a piper and champagne. Why a piper? Why not? It’s that sort of Festival. Booze flowed freely all weekend, and the food was good too. Talked children (mine) and grandchildren (hers) with Beryl Bainbridge, talked of sadly departed Malcolm Bradbury with Christopher Bigsby, talked of crime novelist John Dickson Carr with Jill Paton Walsh, talked Hawthornden castle and other things with Sophie Hannah, talked about those old days with Bloomsbury (publishers, not febrile literary coterie) with DJ Taylor, and chatted happily with Rachel Hore, Tessa West and Anthony Grey. And with all sorts of friends of the Festival and audience members too, because that’s one of the best things about it – you don’t sit behind a table, signing (or not signing) books, you just mill about, chatting. Did sell 20 books though. And stayed with a very nice guy who had a full-size Dalek called Salvador in his kitchen. So that was good.

And my six Desert Island books? They were Bleak House, Dubliners, Ragtime, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Passion, The Road. Could have been six equally valid, entirely different ones of course, but they felt like good choices at the time. Sophie was off to Australia on a book tour on the Monday, Chris was just back from France. I go to Macclesfield and King’s Lynn. And like it.

Macclesfield

Macclesfield, dangling like a glittering jewel beneath the giant ear of Manchester. Had a very good time there last night, reading from the new book, TENDER. (Have I mentioned TENDER already?) Steve and I drove there, taking a bizarre route suggested by TomTom, nearly running out of petrol, unable to phone ahead because of no credit on the mobile. We felt vaguely like itinerant comedians, crossing the country from gig to gig, staying in dodgy B&B’s, spending the day working on new material, then back in front of the audience every evening. But we’re not comedians on a relentless, soul-sapping tour, we’re writers, on an outing.

We were warmly welcomed, in spite of being late, (TomTom, petrol, phone), by Jane, Jane and Lesley, and shown into a room at Ronnie’s Bar full of sofas and comfy chairs. I read from TENDER (it’s my new book, did I say?) and Steve (May) read from his excellent first novel Tag, published by Cinnamon Press, and then Ronnie provided some food, and we answered questions and chatted until (quite) late. We talked about favourite writers, and I mentioned Doctorow, Roth and Cormac McCarthy, and someone else said ‘What, no women?’ So I quickly added Atwood (mainly for The Handmaid’s Tale and Cat’s Eye), Winterson (mainly for The Passion) and Alice Munro (mainly because she’s the best living short story writer.)

When you’re sat most of the time in front of your computer, telling stories to your screen, it’s good, and healthy, to get out sometimes and meet readers, or other writers, or just, you know, humans. Especially if they’re warm and friendly, buy you a pint and give you food. A good evening. I’d rather be a writer than a comedian.

Two Years

How long? Two years? How did that happen? I don’t know, time does that, creeps up on you, then slips past, quickly and slowly, and suddenly it’s later than you thought.

Quick summary. New book out, very soon, with Salt Publishing. TENDER. (I recommend it.) Still on The Show, which is continuing gallantly as ITV rocks and shudders, and throws various bits overboard, threatening to founder, to sink slowly beneath the waves with nothing left to show for itself but a stream of bubbles. Daughter 8, Son 4, family life usual confusing collision of sit-com and reality show. What else? New house, same area. So basically, let’s be honest, two years have passed and not that much has changed.

Salt want me on Facebook, they probably want me to Twitter, they definitely want me to have a website. So I’m going to have a website, but I’m resisting the rest. It all seems so vain, so odd, so young. I’m sort of semi-involved in all that, simultaneously ‘Yes, yes, come in, come and meet me,’ and ‘No, no, who are you, what do you want from me?’ Not very 21st century. Grew up in the seedy, unfriendly, paranoid Seventies … and haven’t changed much.

Favourite book of the century so far? The Road. Which is much more 'No, who are you' than 'Yes, come and meet me ...'

Funny Games

Got Sky two days ago. Reluctantly. Only because Freeview isn’t going to come round here till the day before analogue switch off, and then only if the wind is in the right direction and it isn’t raining. (Unlikely.) So set out to get Freesat, but then they sell us the two package deal because it’s actually cheaper, as long as we remember to cancel the packages before a year is up, which they’re hoping we won’t and they’re probably right. Two surly blokes show up (‘We’re not allowed to lift carpets’) and drill holes in the walls and stuff, and half an hour later we’re all Sky-ed up. And then we watched a five year old repeat of Frasier. That’s progress.

Last night’s viewing diary. Watched a bit of Battlestar Galactica on Sky 1. It’s been highly praised and I like SF but it’s into the third series and I couldn’t get into it. Ads came on, and stayed on a very long time. Switched off. Later tried Whatsisname Booker being nasty about TV. He played many many clips of EastEnders, linking them with weary comments about how boring it is. It is, but so was he. Tried Russell Brand talking about Big Brother instead. RB can be a funny man and almost was, but not quite on this occasion. Switched off. Watching Sky now feeling like wandering lost and confused in endless arid landscape in dry, airless heat, sterile earth all around, bland white sky above, not another living creature for miles around. Sort of Harry Dean Stanton in Paris, Texas, but without the cool music. May suggest this for their next advert.

Next plan is to reduce Favourites (should be called Least Indifferent To’s) to five ordinary channels plus BBC4 and Film4. Pretend others don’t exist so can’t be distracted, confused and made anxious by them. (Actually not sure whether to include Channel 5 – is it really just back to back CSI?)

On happier note, Son has taken to leaving breakfast table and running into front room shouting in huge excitement: ‘Come on! Funny games!’ And Daughter yesterday cried out ‘Dad!’ from bathroom. Sounded urgent and I hurried upstairs, concerned. ‘What is it?’ I said. She replied: ‘I can spell spider backwards!’ Good to know.

Rhythm

Back to work on The Show this week. A script to deliver, an edit to do. When not working on The Show I should be working on a few changes to the Book that’s out in the autumn, and the new Novel, and a Radio Drama idea, and the two original TV ideas I’m collaborating on with friends, and the Film idea I’ve got. Mostly though I’m on the Guardian website, or BBC, or Ain’t It Cool, or Digital Spy, or adding things to my Amazon wish list, or just buying them, or listening to Mark Kermode’s film podcast, or reading and sending non-essential e-mails, or working out what holiday we’re taking this year and ‘researching’ places and prices. Or writing this. Broadband is evil. Should be banned.

Trollope fitted in his hugely prolific writing life around working full-time for the post office. He was disciplined and conscientious, and he said if he missed one day’s writing it took him a fortnight to get back into the rhythm. Hang on, could be a lesson there …

All Human Life ... in the bath

Christmas and New Year all good. Have barely sat in front of a computer for a fortnight, which must be a good thing. Haven’t thought about The Show except as a viewer and have been enjoying that aspect of it. Best moment possibly playing with remote control cars outside house, racing them around elaborate course. (With Brother-In-Law obviously, not child.)

Son was two yesterday. A good day, friends round, Teletubby cake, etcetera. Then in the bath in the evening he said he was sad. I said ‘Because Herbie’s gone home?’ He said Yes. I said ‘But you had a nice time with Herbie.’ He gave a small smile and said Yes. ‘And we’ll see him again soon.’ Son nodded. ‘Later,’ he said, with a bit of a question in his tone.

Seriously, why bother writing novels and short stories and TV dramas? Just watch a two year old, see the unfiltered emotions passing over his face. Regret, nostalgia, anticipation, hope. It’s Christmas, it’s the passing of youth, it’s the story of quite a few relationships. Something is gone or going, maybe something better is round the corner. Later. (Pronounced ‘Pater’ by Son.) Later.

Sunshine

Mostly work this week, getting things done before term ends, relatives arrive and Merriment Begins. Adding a scene to an episode running short, having an edit (‘We want more fun’), finishing a draft of a new ep. Saw the Christmas ep on the DVD they send us – it’s looking very good, thriller-ish, setting up a good whodunnit to run for a while.

Besides work, bought Christmas Tree and decorated it, wrote cards, wrapped unfeasible number of presents, conducted onerous task of tasting various shop-bought mince pies. (Local bakery won by a mile, but they’re 75p each – so Spouse baked some.) Battled over Christmas Tree – ‘What about a stylish red and gold theme this year?’ I suggested, as I usually do. Chaos won, as Chaos always does, as Chaos probably should. But why don’t Christmas trees smell like they used to? It was the smell of Christmas, and it no longer exists. What is the smell of Christmas now? Melting plastic perhaps, as credit cards implode. Also, Why are there no more brazil nuts in shells?

Walked the long way back from town yesterday, because of rare sighting of sun after near 40 days near constant monsoon. Cool and bright, the way you want winter weather to be. (If you don’t like snow.) We're lucky to live here. The best walk is to the Monument, where there’s a huge view across the valley, and up and down the valley. Hillsides seething with trees. Lifts you, if feeling low on inspiration and energy. Renews you, ready for the next day. And the next.

Barry Norman

Astoundingly (well, I’m astounded) saw three adult, mature-type, for grown-ups films last week. (Assuming we can agree Casino Royale fits that description.) Makes a change from steady diet of uninspired kids’ CGI crap over recent months. The Departed. Should have cut first twenty minutes and ending was ludicrous. All of a sudden there’s a second mole in the police force? Where did he come from? Felt like the writer holding up hands and saying I’ve got no idea how to end this. Enjoyed the whole middle section though, and would like to see Hong Kong original. Red Road. Slow and solemn, taking itself very seriously, but oozing atmosphere and, when the secret was finally disclosed, quite moving. Ill-judged thing with the little puppy at the end. And C.R. Too long, like Departed, like every film out of Hollywood now, too many endings, but a lot of fun. Some rubbish lines, not just the wonderful Rolex/Omega exchange, but also the thing in the shower ‘It’s like there’s blood on my hands and I can’t wash it off.’ Could it be any more on the nose? Also a bit distracting to have Alan Hansen as main villain, and the girl looking a bit like Richard E Grant. Or was that just me?

Gondolas

Spoke to the fifty or so students. They were open mouthed, in rapt attention. Forest of hands went up when I asked for questions, storm of applause when I finished. Not really. But they seemed fairly interested as I took them through the process. Conference, Script Document, Scene Breakdown, First Draft, Second, Third, Edit, Edit, Edit. How your favourite scenes – the ones with lots of character and texture but not much in the way of story points – are the first to get cut, how to use communal sets, how to build to a tag, how to deal with an actor suddenly becoming unavailable. Two questions about how to get work experience on The Show. So that’s the next generation sorted. Also went off at a tangent about How I Became A Writer. Basically through writing a story called Journey to the Wreck aged 7. Finished up 12 or 13 pages long, which felt like War & Peace at the time. An experience shamelessly fictionalised in my second novel.

This was all in Bradford, where they are apparently knocking down the police station to build a lake. Presumably somewhere they’re bricking over a reservoir to build a police station. Bradford soon to become the Venice of the North, then. It’s a small step.

Michael Grade = Blofeld

Conference last week was in a hotel on an island, reached by a narrow bridge. Half expected Producer to be waiting for us in a white swivel chair, stroking a white cat. We sit round in black leather seats, she presses a button and a 3D model of the Location rises out of the table. On the way back across the bridge a trap-door swings and someone who’d dared propose an unpopular storyline drops into the water. Splash. Scream. Water seethes and boils while the piranha feast. Disappointingly, it was not actually much like that at all. Unless all that happened while I was busy doing some tweaks to one episode (following Scheduling Problems) and a major edit on another (following Storyline Change.)

Met Editor/Publisher (same person) of my book for a drink. Passionate, engaging, complimentary, which is all good, clearly. We discussed some changes here and there, one or two fairly important ones. Plenty to consider – or there would be if I could remember anything he’d said in any detail. Hoping for an e-mail to clarify.

And tomorrow going to talk about writing in general and The Show in particular to a bunch of University students. How an episode happens, from conference to final draft of Script. They’re all writing short films apparently. Will they be interested in what I do? Will I remember what I do? We shall see.

Inside Information

Finally got the date for a Procedure I’ve been waiting for. Had one last year, after various health issues I won’t trouble you with, and they removed a Benign Polyp. I thought it would be nice to have the BP in a jar on my desk like a … like a what? What would do justice to a BP floating in preserving liquid? I’m thinking mushrooms, baby’s fingers, penises. Anyway, got another Procedure lined up to check all is still well in there. It’s basically not too unpleasant except for the foul Preparation you have to drink twice, 12 and 24 hours beforehand. You mix it in half a glass of water then try to get it down you, like Dumbledore drinking that poison in the Half Blood Prince. And we know what happened to him. Will be keeping you minutely informed re my insides in coming weeks.

In that spirit … woke up in night with stomach ache. Line of pain across upper stomach. Probably appendicitis, I thought. I can’t have my appendix out, I’ve got too many deadlines. Will I have time to get two scripts off before it bursts? Will I be able to explain to Spouse which scripts to e-mail, where to e-mail them, how to attach them and properly encode them? All from my hospital bed, while suffering from complications brought on by a Superbug? Then I went to the loo, and pain disappeared.

TODAY’S LIST

Three Top Gigs

The Clash at Lewisham Odeon

The Specials & Dexies at Aldwych

Bowie at Parc des Princes

Chocolate

A while ago, six months maybe, my friend S came up with this promising TV idea, and together we made it into a good 3 page Outline. Much harder than it sounds. A 3 page Outline can suck all the promise and life out of an idea and leave it like a dry, hopeless, inspiration-free husk. But our Outline bounced and amused and engaged. Well, we liked it anyway, and so did someone from an Independent Production Company, (who used to work on The Show, which helps.) So we write a first ep. Then rewrite it. Then rewrite it again. But the big thing is – and this does not always happen – each draft is getting better. It really doesn’t always happen. There was one writer who put her script through change after change after change over a period of several months. Eventually she thought Sod it, and sent in her original script again. Yes! Said the Script Editor. This is exactly what I wanted! Our experience has not been like this. The only difficult part has been handling mood swings from S. S has never worked on TV before, so goes from inappropriate optimism to utter despair very quickly. I remain on boring even keel. (It’s not just scripts I underwrite, (see below), it’s my own emotions too.)

And then the Independent Prod Co said ... No. After all that. Not surprising, but disappointing all the same. So it’s gone out via my agent to make its way in the world, knocking at the door of several other IPC’s. And we’re Waiting To Hear again.

Went to big party for The Show, laid on by sponsors. Fairground rides, loads of drink and food, rubbing shoulders with stars and execs. All very nice, but the highlight of the evening was definitely the chocolate fountain. What a remarkable invention.

TODAY’S LIST

3 Films I’ve seen recently and highly recommend

Good night and good luck
Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
The Consequences of Love

Edit

Had the edit on those two episodes mentioned below. Nearly four hour phone call followed by a few days work. Quite a lot to do. The storyline was always a bit thin, and I failed I think on first draft to bulk it up. The underlying message of the edit was Make It Bigger. I get that sometimes. I have a tendency to underwrite. Comes from writing Literary Fiction, probably. Took me years before I could bring myself to put an exclamation mark in a script. They’re considered the work of the devil in Lit Fiction, but they’re common currency in The Show. And why not? They’re pretty common currency in life too.

Son has been saying Bye Bye very sweetly for some time now. Has lately started saying Hello too, in an almost uncanny impression of Elmer Fudd. Part of me wishes malapropisms and Elmer Fudd impressions would go on longer. Daughter told me on way to school that she’s going to draw everybody’s shoes, and put their names next to the pictures. Why? I wondered, sounding casual but wondering about incidence of autism in six year old girls. It’s so she can go in the toilet and see who’s in the cubicles by looking through the gap under the door. Because she’s a Detective. Should we be worried?

And in other news, had the piss taken out of me for ordering Cheese Souffle in a restaurant. Cheese Souffle, it was implied, is effeminate. Can this be right? Had Wild Boar with Mustard Mash for main course which I think must make me unusually conflicted.

TODAY’S LIST

3 Favourite Short Stories

The Swimmer John Cheever

For Esme Salinger

Revenge Ellen Gilchrist

20 Years Ago

Old Friend came, with family, for end of half-term. Met her at University of East Anglia, 20 years ago. MA in Creative Writing. That was a good year. Ten of us, aged between 23 and 50 something, different backgrounds, nationalities, experiences. Same hopes. And by some surprising alchemy instead of all hating and distrusting each other, trying to step on each other on our way to stardom, we all got on.

It was taught back then by Malcolm Bradbury and Angela Carter. Malcolm Bradbury took the workshops. Legs twined together, sardonic mouth, what my mother would call kind eyes. Somehow getting us all to open up to each other. Outside the classroom he might mistake you for someone else (possibly not seeing you properly through the haze of pipe smoke), but inside he was warm, engaging and sharp. You’d introduce your 20 pages, then he’d make sure everyone had their say, then he’d summarise the criticism and extend it and ask penetrating questions, and you’d finish up looking at your writing in a slightly different way.

And then Angela Carter. We met her for one to one’s, and since I lived in London I went to her house in Clapham. First time, looking down this long street of terraced Victorian housing, I knew which would be her house. It was the only pink one. And inside all this intriguing clutter, including a horse from a fairground ride. And her perched on the edge of a chair, all in black, with her cloud of white hair. There was a thunderstorm that first time, and a crack of lightning when I entered. ‘Sorry,’ she said. You sensed it was a bit of a chore for her to read your stuff, a slight air of weariness to her, but her observations and questions were acute, and often disarming, and she once began a comment to me ‘Well, obviously it can be published but …’ I didn’t catch the rest of what she had to say. Angela Carter thought it could obviously be published! She gave us presents when we finished, books she felt were apposite.

I was one of the stars that year. Wrote my first novel there, got it published the following year, had two more published and a bunch of short stories before I was thirty. Shame there was no fetish for younger writers back then. Good looking younger writers. Good looking younger writers writing thoughtful, moving, serious literary fiction. Old Friend was a slower starter, but now she’s a Leading Light of the London Literary Scene and I’m only now, all these years later, getting my 4th book published. But I’m not jealous and bitter. I have been in the past, but I’m not now. Your 20’s are for ambition, your 30’s for disappointment and your 40’s are for stepping back a bit and saying ‘Yes, this is OK, this is pretty good.’ Someone wrote that, or something like it. In fact several people probably have, including me. Does it sound plausible?

3 Books I’ve read recently and highly recommend

The Damned United David Peace

The Accidental Ali Smith

Runaway Alice Munro