Saturday, September 13, 2008


Yesterday I worked hard and had a GOOD writing day. The house was empty of husband (which always helps me to concentrate) and I could begin to get inside my new narrator's head.

So in the afternoon I went with a clear conscience to my nearest cafe (at Chatsworth Farm Shop, above) with another writer - and we talked about writing and stories and moaned about things that writers moan about (lack of confidence, lack of reviews) and I told Chrissie about the stories I'd been making up for my grandsons about transporter drivers called Frank, and cats that need rescuing from the roof by firemen (i.e. 2 year olds dressed up in a fireman's hat) and she told me about the stories she tells to her daughter about King Arthur. See the difference? She's one classy lady.

Chrissie is a crime writer. She'd had an idea for a new short story: "Don't you think a hospital is a brilliant place for a murder?" she said, and I wondered if the woman on the next table heard, and thought we were planning the perfect crime.

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