The word count for Bethany Rose now stands at 11,000 words. Only 89,000 to go. No! Don't think of that!! Today's tally was 2,000. It was 3pm before I realised I'd forgotten to have lunch. Did I mention that I'd begun writing the new version of BR ? Anyway, it began to appear on my puuter screen on January 16th. I hadn't intended to spend that evening working but TV was as boring as it usually is, and while busy washing dinner dishes the start of the novel came to me. My fingers started itching, and so it began. Do your fingers itch, literally burn and itch, when you've got a tasty idea demanding to be written or painted or photographed? I find myself pulling odd facial expressions as the images of the idea flows through my mind. It's like watching a cinema screen in 3D inside my head. Who needs a remote control zapper when with a flick of Will you can rewind, rewrite, bring details up closer or move away as the story bursts into life internally? Then

...Another year, that is. And yikes what a chilly start! I'm wearing four layers and I'm still cold. Stew for tonight's dinner--which I'm not looking forward to as I loathe stew, but there was little else I could do with the mountain goat which was supposed to have been lamb. Lamb?!! A howling chainsaw would have struggled to make an indent on that thing. Bleeeurch!! Here's hoping my culinary efforts can render it tolerable. Tamsin is finished; all edits done. Unless a publisher wants any changes to be made, it will now remain as it is for all time. The final full-stop is in place. And the word-count now stands at 85,000 words, which is only 1,000 less than on the previous draft. Now I'll begin editing Rowan , which I'm looking forward to doing, actually. Plus there are two short stories on the back-boiler, and I need to start thinking about what to do with Bethany Rose , as last year I wrote 50,000 words of that before admitting that I hated the

I've got two pairs of socks on, and some leg warmers, and my feet are still freezing! It's a hazard of sitting in front of this computer for too long. Anyway, editing work on Tamsin continues, and chapter 12 brings the total word count so far to 33,250. This afternoon I'll be dodging rain showers to go to the village. We need a few bits for the kitchen, and as I'll be seeing friends tomorrow there's a small present to find. There has been no snow here at all, despite the gloom-laden weather forecasts on TV! Fancy them shutting schools yesterday, just for an inch or so of snow. As a child, my friends and I walked the mile to junior school through knee-deep drifts of snow, and then home again later (at the usual time) - every winter. Softies! (Am I now turning into Victor Meldrew? Will my next statement be a lament about having coped with twelve hours down the coal pit before walking over the ice-bound hills in bare feet to do another twelve hours in t'owd co

1,626 words this morning - and chapter one of the total re-write of Bethany Rose is now underway. The draft I'm working from was originally titled Cry for Innocence but this doesn’t fit in with the theme of my two other novel titles so I simply changed its name to that of the main character, as with the others. The old draft is only 50,000 words long, so I need to double that. I have a solid plot in mind, to amend this. Also, there are many character and plot details which need to be changed so that everything blends with the mythos I’ve developed since penning the first draft of Cry…. For those who are now totally confused, I’ll explain that I wrote Cry… first, followed by Tamsin then Rowan . They can all be read in any order, so this won’t matter in the slightest. However, I’m not happy with Cry… at all; and so it’s about to be totally re-written with a whole extra plotline in the second half, and big modifications in the first. In a way, it might be easier just to start

Remember that Warholian line about everyone having fifteen minutes of fame? Well, in this age of supposed equality, this seems to have been extended to spiders - the one living in our bird house, to be exact. Yup, dear ol' Incey Wincey made page two of the Wirral Globe this week. On the TV news, there was a brief piece which announced that British fruit growers have lost up to two-thirds of their crops due to the wet weather. Apparently this has been the wettest June since records began. (This in itself doesn’t mean much, as the records only go back around 150 years which, in the life of this planet, is like a blink to you and me.) The bulk of my raspberry crop has been ruined. The fruits are rotting on the canes, which renders them absolutely useless. But that’s nothing compared to the problems other people are having right now. Read this:- http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/news/article-23402936-details/'We've+all+been+forgotten'+say+30,000+UK+flood+victims/articl

Art in Liverpool http://www.artinliverpool.com/blog/blogarch/literature/  and Nerve Magazine http://www.catalystmedia.org.uk/issues/misc/articles/word_is.htm  both carry write-ups of the recent Word Is They Say (WITS) literary festival in Liverpool, which I took part in. One of the funniest films I've watched in a long time is Jake West 's Evil Aliens , produced by Tim Dennison . The blurb on the back of the DVD box says, "Michelle Fox (Emily Booth) takes a film crew to deepest, darkest Wales to investigate claims of alien abduction. The television crew don't believe a word of the story until the real stars arrive. They're aliens and they're not friendly." What follows is a hilarious spoof splatter/gore film - hardly my usual preferred choice of genre, but this truly was so funny. Suffice to say that I'll never see a combine harvester again without remembering this film. Recommended! In contrast, one of the most boring films I've seen in m

“Taste this,” he said, poking the thin drizzle of sauce zigzagging over his plate. He did not look happy. “Hmm, apple pie and cough medicine. Interesting combination.” “What’s yours like?” He peered across the table, over the top of the tea pot. I scowled at the ugly square white plate sat before me, on which rested a thin, sunken floppy brown wedge. “Stale chocolate cake softened with cheap diluted sherry then warmed up.” I, too, had been presented with a miserable whisker of zigzagging cream. Look, chefs, if I order pudding I want pudding , and not someone else’s idea of a break in an anorexic’s diet, ok? And what’s with the miserly drizzles? Humph! The main meal had been pleasant but the portions meagre. I’d had to paddle through my korma to find any chicken, and I’d seen bigger stock cubes than his salmon steak. To top this, the place possessed all the aesthetic charm of a school dining hall – think N-O-I-S-E plus a constant flow of people pushing past us. So, having

Our bread board, butter dish and coffee machine have met with a sticky end. It was, apparently, all the fault of a carrot. Picture the scene, if you will. There was I, reclining on my pillows and sipping V8 Citrus, one hand idly tickling Ygraine’s ear, when the peace was rent by a florid flurry of fine Anglo-Saxon expressions of exasperation, followed by a rapid succession of thumps and crashes from the kitchen below. More traditional phrases pierced the Sunday ambience. He’d been making himself a smoothie, and a small carrot had been missed by the blender’s blades so he poked it with a wooden spoon then turned to the tap to rinse said spoon – only to feel the cold, wet splatter of smoothie hit the back of his head as the lid flew off. He span round, intending to grab the blender’s lid but somehow knocked the bread board which crashed to the floor taking the coffee machine and butter dish with it. Naturally, the butter dish lid fell off and broke, splattering the freshly launder