Ten True Things

These are my ten rules – things that I have realised are true to me.

1.        A novel won't write itself.

2.        Dark chocolate is good for you but not if you eat the whole bar in one sitting.

3.        Telling friends and family you can't see them/talk to them because you're writing is wrong if all you end up doing is mucking about on Facebook.

4.        Talking about writing is not the same as actually doing it, however enthusiastic you may be.

5.        Green tea is good for you but it tastes vile.

6.        Leaving difficult tasks until they become irrelevant does work, but the huge amount of guilt you feel just isn't worth it.

7.        There is such a thing as too much research.

8.        Reading running magazines will not make you fitter unless you actually go out and run.

9.        Your teenage daughter rarely wants your advice even though you invariably do Know Better.

10.        It's OK to fail but it's not OK to give up.

What are yours?

The Living Story

Things have been a bit rubbish recently. Lovely Novel turned out to be Lousy Novel and has been discarded. The doctors thought there was a chance the cancer had come back (it hasn't). The little girl missing in Machynlleth is from the town where my family live and the whole place is, understandably, in shock. My mother broke her leg, well, her knee, but it's a full plaster and she's totally immobile. So that's that.

But, there has been a gleam, a little sparkle, a nugget of loveliness. And, bear with me here, it all started with a trip to a Victorian mortuary. Yes, I know. It doesn't sound that great. During the London Open House weekend (which is a splendid thing and everyone who can go, should go), I went to Rotherhithe to see the mortuary. I thought it would be interesting, after all, I am the woman who spent the evening at the Old Operating Theatre in London Bridge, listening to a talk about the history of autopsies. There's nothing left of the mortuary now - it's a community centre - but as I listened to the history of the place, how the building was used, how they took in the bodies washed up in the Thames, the seed of a story planted itself in my head. I spent the rest of the day wandering around Rotherhithe. I spent another day wandering around Wapping. And I went to the Crossness Pumping Station in Erith Marshes. And I read. Peter Ackroyd's London Under building in particular built on my story idea. I went mudlarking. I went to the Mayflower and the Angel (oh, such hardship in the name of research) and I scribbled notes, took photos, and let the story evolve.

It struck me how lucky I am to live in London, the place where my stories are usually set. You can still find historic buildings and atmospheric lanes. The river itself tells so much - the shores, the old jetties, moss covered steps long since abandoned. And all these things build a picture in your head, give your characters somewhere to grab onto, make the story come alive. We have excellent museums. The Museum of London has a Victorian shopping centre. Their off-shoot in the Docklands has Sailor Town - a street with a lodging house, shops, the riverfront. You are never far away from the past, whether real or imagined.

And my story? It grows day by day. I have my setting. I have my story line. I have my characters (thank you Miriam Halahmy for the fantastic SCBWI masterclass). But because of my wanderings, I have my world. It's in my head. It's real, it's breathing, it's alive. And you can't get better than that.