Do you have a favourite place?

I love Charleston in Sussex, it is one of the most inspiring properties in all of England.

Writers, painters and intellectuals (the Bloomsbury Group) used to meet at Charleston. Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant lived and painted there - they decorated everything - the walls, the furniture, the doors and more. On a recent visit I took a few photos:











And this is a painting I recently finished:



(The original was by Vanessa Bell).

Writer's Block

What is writer's block?

Can't write, won't write? Writer's Block happens to everyone at some stage in their writing career. It has its roots based in fear, the I'm not good enough to write fear; the why on earth would anybody want to read what I've written; or I've written so much the vessel is empty - nothing left, all gone - I know NOTHING. Of course one can always write something; for example there is the writer's journal - forget about fiction for a few days - FORBID yourself to touch a drop of the fantasy stuff. You are only allowed to keep a journal - about anything and everything - what time the postman put the letters through the door - how he did that - shoved them in without care or rang the bell and said, 'Good morning, this package won't fit through the letterbox'. Try writing about the mundane stuff for a while - your imagination will soon be screaming for relief - TAKE ME AWAY FROM HERE, QUICK!

Of course there is another type of Writer's Block and this one is more worrying. It's the, I've got loads to say but no time to say it in. This is a sort of Writer's Block, it is linked to procrastination or that psychological word that means doing anything but writing: deflecting. The washing up, telephone calls, hoovering (yuk), sorting, filing, emptying bins. This sort of block is a little more worrying and it tends to happen to people without routine in their lives. For example, I know a published author who religiously sits at her desk everyday from 10am-2pm without fail - oh the green-eyed=monster just quipped: 'Well it's alright for her, she doesn't have to work.' It's true she doesn't have to go out to work but she does work, very hard everyday at her desk refusing to move until something is written on the page. And unfortunately there is no magic wand that will take those words in your head and get them down on the page without your help. You have to find some time and just sit there and write - even if it is on the train or bus on the way to work and back - that's a couple of hours a day, ten hours a week, forty hours a month and precisely five hundred twenty hours a year - which brings me to my next question: How long does it take to write a novel?

To a child dancing in the wind

(Painting by: Steve Hanks) Dance there upon the shore; 

What need have you to care 

For wind or water's roar? 

And tumble out your hair 

That the salt drops have wet; 

Being young you have not known 

The fool's triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won, 

Nor the best labourer dead 

And all the sheaves to bind. 

What need have you to dread 

The monstrous crying of the wind? 

 W.B. Yeats 

This poem reminds me of an old friend of mine who I met at university. He once said that he would buy me a little shack in Ireland where I could sit and write all day. He left me with a hole in my heart and I 've not seen him for many years. I hope he is happy and found the love he was looking for.

Little Girl Lost

Forgot to tell friends what happened to me on the way home on Friday. I worked quite late, catching up with some e-mails and bits and pieces to do with the Greenacre Bicycle rally. I got to Arnos Grove in North London at about 7.30pm ish. Luckily my bike was still there (it had been stolen a few months ago outside Arnos Grove and amazingly it was handed in to a police station and I got it back). Whenever possible I like to ride via the quieter roads, I find many drivers on the main roads quite aggressive towards cyclists. This astounds me as the drivers are surrounded by metal and relatively safety whereas, cyclists are naked, one little bump and our skin breaks open and blood pours out.
I took my normal route towards Station Road N11 and was just passing by the church when I saw a tiny little girl pushing a pink scooter. I watched to see if a parent was following but no it was just the little girl on her own. A chap in a car asked if she was okay and I rode towards her. She had tiny blue eyes and white blonde hair, quite a confident little thing.
'Where's your mummy?'
'shfkjahfkkjbvjkjhkjjojtjglkjwlkgjwkl', she replied.
'Mama,' I said, 'where's your mama?'
'asjkfhkdjkjflkejkjeklfkjeklejkeklrfjk'.
I think she was Polish. So I pointed in one direction, 'Mama?' And then I pointed in the other direction, 'Mama?'
'mfkflkjlelkdnfkklfsdklklklmamakashjkwh.'
'We go see Mama, this way Mama or that way Mama?'
Eventually she seemed to understand, dropped her scooter and went running back the way she had come. I followed, round the back of some flats, past a broken fence and piles of rubbish. She turned down a side entrance and there in the garden were three other children and two women.
'Hello,' I said, 'This little girl was out in the road.'
'Oh my God,' said one of the women.
'Is she your daughter?' I asked a younger girl with brown hair.
She pointed to the older woman, 'No, she is hers.'
I told them she had left her scooter on the pavement. They both followed me, 'Oh my god,' they said over and over again. 'She came out all this way, she must wanted to go home.' The older woman pointed in the direction the little girl had been heading towards, 'We live down there.'
This made me wonder if perhaps the little girl had understood me and I confused her because they lived in one direction and her mother was in the garden in the other direction. I asked if she could speak English.
'No, just Polish'.
I got on my bike and said goodbye.
'Thank you, thank you.' they both said.
I continued my ride home, wondering what would have happened if I had not worked late and so been in that place at that time. I thanked the angels for looking after the little girl lost.

York Tales

One of my short stories was published in York Tales. This anthology of contemporary writing includes twenty short stories inspired by Chaucer but set in the present day. 'The Old Wife's Tale', is set in York. Jeremy Bath is studying at York University, he only has one week left before he has to give a presentation about what women really want in relationships. Poor Jeremy is stumped, they all want something different. He meets an old hag who says she can help but only if he promises to marry her!


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