My Map Pins (1) Nairobi, Kenya (Posted February 2021)

 

I haven't been to Nairobi since I was seventeen. That was in 1971. So the photograph here (not my picture by the way) is from around that time, This is Nairobi bus station as I remember it. When I went into town (which I did a lot), this is where I would often go to catch the bus home.

I've been doing that thing on Google Maps where you create a map of your life; you drop a pin into all the places you've been, and before long you have a world map dotted with your memories. No use to anyone of course, except as a rather fun exercise; but I had this idea to turn a few of my pins into blog posts. After all, I have been a rubbish blogger, and it is time I posted some more. So here we are, and I'm starting with Nairobi. This is where I was born - at the Princess Elizabeth Hospital (now the Kenyatta National Hospital). My dad was a civil servant, and we moved around a lot, but the house I remember most was the one Dad built - the home I grew up in. The address used to be Westfield Close, Lavington which is a terribly British address. Today it is Naushad Merali Drive. (See the What3Words link below). I used to know every inch of this neighbourhood. I explored it on my bike, and on foot with my best friend Bruce Bulley. In those days it was on the very edge of town, and you could set off on the Kikuyu paths into wild Kenya - watching out for snakes - and we regularly did. In my novel, 'The Notable Brain of Maximilian Ponder', this is where the early chapters are set. Adam Last, the voice of the book, lives conveniently in the very house where I did, and he explores the same paths.

I still miss Nairobi. To me it still feels like home. I still hope, one day, to go back

what3words /// The simplest way to talk about location

What3words: dusters.pitch.cowboy

 

Why I shall always be a Remainer ... (30 December 2020)

That’s it. We’ve left the EU. We’ve swapped membership of a great international club for a sort of handwritten visitor’s-pass. We’ve done it to appease a motley and dubious crowd of braying nationalists. I don’t know, by the way, if this will make us richer, or if it will make us poorer. Neither do you. Neither does anyone. Both sides wheel-out their tame economic think-tanks to make contradictory forecasts. Yet even when Brexit has become old news, let’s say in ten years’ time, when all the dust has settled and economists have done their sums, do you know what? We still won’t know. We’ll still be arguing. Because who knows what the alternative future might have been? Remainers will say it would have been rosier. Leavers will say it would have been bleaker. Jacob Rees-Mogg will be telling us it will take fifty more years before we know. Well, good luck with that.

Here’s where I stand on the whole sorry argument. I’m a Remainer. I shall still be a Remainer even if Britain’s economy booms spectacularly after Brexit as Boris Johnson promises us it will, or equally, if it fails, as many economists and the Financial Times choose to believe. My argument, you see, has nothing to do with the economy, or trade deals, or customs unions, or tariffs. I’m not worried about the colour of our passports, or the plight of farmers in Northern Ireland, or lorries parking up on the M2 at Dover. Or fish. I am concerned however, about our belligerent desire to build barriers between peoples, as if somehow we are different, as if we breathe different air or have different numbers of legs. We are all related, the Brits, and the Belgians, and the Bulgars, and the Bolivians and every other label we can choose to hang around the necks of people, but we have lost sight of this. Let me demonstrate this. Consider your cousins. If your first cousin is someone who shares one (or usually two) of your grandparents, and your second cousin shares one of your great grandparents, it turns out that almost no one on the planet is more distant from you than a 27^th cousin. Most people are a whole lot closer. We are all related. We have been fooled by ephemeral things like skin colour or language to imagine that humans belong in races or nationalities, but genetically we’re all pretty much the same. There is more genetic difference between a chimpanzee in Senegal and another in Uganda than there is between an Inuit and a Maori, or a Yorkshireman and a Chinaman. It really doesn’t help us to define ourselves by the patch of land where we happen to have been born (or the island we happen to think of as home). We are one human family, and if the world belongs to anyone, it belongs to all of us equally. Understanding this, and treating the world as our common responsibility, is the best (and possibly only) hope for our species. We only have one planet. It is the cradle and home of our species. Whether you were born in Ruislip or Rio, whether you’re a Briton or a Breton, a Ghanian or a Guyanian, we all have a right to live and breathe the same air, to grow up, to raise families, and to pursue happiness or whatever it is we want to pursue (within reason of course). And it seems to me that the biggest barrier we have to this great ideal is our almost religious devotion to the idea of the nation state with its precious little borders and its pretentions of autonomy. I like to think that one day, probably long after you and I are dust, the squabble of little nations and fragile egos and tiny minded bigotries that infect our planet and keep us all at arm’s length will dissolve and we will come together as a people to manage, and curate this planet, and its tribes, and its wildlife, in a way we simply don’t do today. And in that regard I saw the European Union as one small, tentative, local, step in the right direction.

OK. So perhaps I’m a fantasist. But bear with me a little longer. The EU wasn’t (and isn’t) a perfect organisation. We agree on that. But it can (and does) legislate on environmental issues across a whole continent. That’s important. The EU has some of the world’s highest environmental standards, and laws passed in Brussels help protect natural habitats, keep air and water clean, ensure proper waste disposal, and help businesses move toward sustainable economies. Tin-pot nations that don’t belong to a global bloc like the EU don’t bother making these kinds of rules. Why should they? Only a big club like the EU can do this.

And the EU is growing. Or it was growing until Britain decided to take its ball away. It was nine countries. Now it’s 28. One day it might absorb countries in the Middle East, in Central Asia, and North Africa and who knows, it could, one day become a global union. I hope it does. I hope Brexit doesn’t put the brakes on this. And I hope, when it does finally reach a critical mass, it won’t be too late to save our planet from greedy, feuding, nation states.

Nation states are the problem. They’re not the solution. Not even Britain. Nation states like to think they can do whatever they want. They can make their own rules. And they do. But a world of competing nation states is a world that rapes the planet of its resources, that stifles the freedom of its people to travel, that overlooks famines and disasters in other countries. Nations go to war with other nations. Nations can’t manage the oceans. They can’t manage the climate. They can’t halt deforestation. They can’t stop mass extinctions. 

Yet the idea of the nation state is so deeply embedded in our collective view of the world that it is a difficult shibboleth to topple. All around the world children learn about the glorious histories of their own nations. Every other country is a potential enemy. That’s the lesson we all grow up believing. Brexit was driven by a whole basket of grievances, but more than this, it was driven by a nationalistic belief in British exceptionalism, the idea that we are somehow better than the Poles and Hungarians, that the sun that shines on Britain is our sun, that the fish in the sea are ours, that Queen still rules an empire, and the map is still pink. But none of this is true.

 The EU isn’t a global talking-shop like the UN. It’s a pragmatic single market with free trade and free movement and regulations and regulatory oversight and a court. It is an organisation that survives by respecting its members, celebrating their differences, and trying to find consensus. Imagine a world run like that. Is it such a bad idea? Really?

This is why I want to stay part of the club. I don’t expect Britain to rejoin for a generation at least – but I will support any campaign to rejoin. I’m a remainer. I will always be a remainer. And I’m proud of that.

 

Covid-19 / Corona Virus and Not Forgetting the Whale (12th Feb 2020)

[This was posted to my blog on 12th February 2020 when we were only just beginning to hear about Coronavirus - just in case you wonder why some of it sounds a little weird now...]

First an apology. I’m a rubbish blogger. This is my first post since my sixtieth birthday blog, and that was, ahem, five and a bit years ago. My blog history has skipped right past my third novel, ‘Not Forgetting the Whale,’ as if it never happened, and I probably ought to be thinking about blogging ahead of my next book, ‘The Many Lives of Heloise Starchild.’ But events of recent weeks (I’m thinking now about the Covid-19 Corona Virus) have reminded me of Not Forgetting the Whale, so maybe it is time, at last, for a blog.

Not Forgetting the Whale (if you haven’t read it) is a whimsical and slightly allegorical tale about the collapse of civilisation following a worldwide flu pandemic. If that sounds a little heavy, it might help to add that the story is told almost entirely from the perspective of a tiny Cornish fishing community. The fictional village of St Piran was a familiar environment for me to write about. I was seventeen when my family left Nairobi and reinvented themselves as shopkeepers in Mevagissey, a village on the Cornish coast. My mother had grown up there, and she longed to go back. My parents bought a general store in the square, right by the harbour, and I worked there, during school and university holidays, stacking shelves, slicing bacon, and delivering groceries to houses around the village. One of my regular deliveries was to the writer Colin Wilson who lived a short way out of town in a rambling old farmhouse. It was a real writer’s home – filled with books. ‘I should love to be a writer,’ I told him once, after I had carried a box of groceries into his kitchen. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you want to be a writer, then you will be. You won’t have any choice.’

I thought, at first, I would hate Mevagissey. My friends were far away, and this little town (especially in winter) was desperately quiet and remote. But, like Joe, the protagonist of Whale, I discovered instead a most extraordinary community. Within weeks I had learned the names and faces of dozens of villagers, I had made new friends, and I had started to understand the support network that every villager seemed to be part of. It was unexpected. It was a joy.

I wanted to write about this for a long time. What I needed was a story. On a train from London to Liverpool I found myself reading a magazine article by the science writer Debora Mackenzie. The title of the article was, ‘Could a Pandemic bring down Western Civilisation?’ The idea was simple, yet terrifying. Complexity theory suggests that once a society develops beyond a certain level, it becomes dangerously fragile. It reaches a point where even a minor disturbance can bring everything crashing down. A pandemic flu – for example. I had my story. I became fascinated by arcane things like … supply chains.

The whole way our civilisation works – even the systems involved in putting food onto our tables - has become labyrinthine in its complexity, involving high-tech farm machinery, refrigerated warehouses, networks of specialist distributors, and complicated packaging. It relies on the availability of fuel, spare parts for all the machines, the health and reliability of drivers and packers and dozens of other trades, the electronic exchange of currency, good road, rail, and other transport networks, and who knows how easy it would be for any one of these systems to fail. The fact that it all works amazingly well means we don’t tend to think of it as a risky process. And yet it is. A small disruption could grind the whole machine to a halt. 

This is the central thesis behind Not Forgetting the Whale. A pandemic flu, originating in the Far East, is brought unwittingly to Britain by passengers on a long distance flight, and after that, public fear takes over. Oil imports stop. Key workers stay home. Power stations grind to a halt. Shops are raided and shelves are emptied of produce. I had a quotation in my mind, ‘Civilisation is only three square meals away from anarchy.’ This quotation (from the TV Series Red Dwarf) drove the story.   

And now, here we are facing Covid-19. It’s a flu-like virus from China that threatens to explode into a pandemic.  Could it lead to the same situation that faces St Piran in The Whale?

And I suppose the answer has to be … yes.

But there is a glimmer of hope. In Not Forgetting the Whale the forecast for humanity is grim. But humankind (in general) and St Piran (in particular) defy the pundits and bounce back. They do this by, well, … pulling together and sharing things, and generally being nice to one another. They overturn all the assumptions of apocalyptic fiction that see us hunkering down with shotguns and fighting over the last scrap of bread. The flu virus, far from destroying us, ends up bringing us closer together. Maybe that should give us hope.   

Although the villagers of St Piran do have the help of a whale, of course. Let’s not forget that.  

Glastonbarby ... and the significance of sixty (4th July 2014)

Perhaps I shouldn't admit to this. Maybe I should post a youthful photo and pretend to be thirty five. Oh dear. This is harder than I thought it would be. 
Deep breath.
Here goes ...
... in four days time I shall be sixty. 
Ouch!
It might be easier if the birthday cards were kinder. Instead the convention seems to be a comical card with a sting inside. 'At your age it's a good idea to test your hearing,' reads one. 'So I bought you this musical card.' (Hint: It isn't a musical card.) 'You're at a wise age,' headlines another. And inside, 'wise my hair falling out? Wise my memory going?'
Oh well.
We had a fabulous party, (Glastonbarby) with sixty (natch) wonderful guests. We set up our mini-marquee and my brilliant son-in-law Ian fixed up a live link to the Glastonbury Festival on a colossal screen and we all ate hog roast, and drank Pimms and countless bottles of wine to the sounds of Metallica and Brian Ferry and we all partied ridiculously late into the night. Mike (Plymouth to Banjul) Taylor set off the biggest firework display I've seen for ages. Sue made an amazing cake. And our kids showed an embarrassing surprise video montage (Sixty Years in the Making) with photographs of me from childhood to bloated old age (including a picture of me in a frock as Mariana of the Moated Grange in a school production of Measure for Measure - not the sort of family photo I'd normally choose to share.) There were surprise guests. There were balloons. There was bunting with my face and age. There was an awful lot of hugging. Actually it was just about the best barbecue night I could imagine. Twenty one people stayed the night and the next morning we barbecued bacon and sausages and black pudding and Sue made a huge trough of scrambled eggs and the sun shone. Thank you to everyone who came, who helped with food and tents and loads of other stuff. It was awesome. You were awesome.
And here's the thing. I don't feel sixty. Really I don't. I've figured out that it isn't a milestone at all. It isn't this big deal. It's just a day, and hey, tomorrow will be another one. Two of our best friends bought me a T-shirt that reads 'Old Guy,' on the front. 'It fits perfectly,' I've told them. 'But I've put it in the drawer. I'm keeping it for when I get old.' 

A New Cover Revealed (15th May 2014)

I don’t imagine Dickens lost an awful lot of sleep worrying about the cover designs for his novels. ‘Bleak House,’ he might have thought, ‘let’s go for a plain cover, in brown leather, with the title embossed in gold.’ ‘Ah Charles,’ the publisher might have said, ‘we’re toying with a plain red cover with a silver embossed title.’ Controversial. 

But these days - covers matter. They matter a lot. It can be irksome for a writer who has spent two years working on a novel to discover that the cover is the main topic of interest for the local book group. But publishers too, get very exercised by cover designs. Of course they do. A good cover can sell a lot of books. A poor cover can consign a book to the remainders store. Enter one of the most important people in the business - the cover designer. The cover designer has to be an artist, an alchemist, and a magician. He or she has to capture the essence of a novel in a single image, has to make it striking, compelling, and simultaneously unique. It has to be a cover you wouldn’t be embarrassed to be hiding behind on the tube, but a cover that will catch your eye on a book shelf. It has to scatter hints on genre and location and mood. It has to be serious. It has to be light. Who, I wonder, would be a cover designer?

 I love the hardback cover for ‘The Coincidence Authority.’ The plain image of the seagull and the sharp blue of the background seem to capture the whimsical essence of the story in a clear, eye-catching way. I also love the dreamy, faraway qualities of the US cover So I was a little surprised when Orion’s brilliant paperback editor Gail Paten told me that she was commissioning a redesign. Did it need one? ‘Yes,’ she told me. And she was pretty emphatic. Paperbacks are different creatures to hardbacks. The rules change. We talked about some of the ideas. Should it reflect the African themes of the story? Or something else?

Today W&N have revealed the new cover, and Gail has blogged about the hard work that went into the design. It is humbling to discover just how many people and how many ideas and how much talent went into the new cover.  But for me it is perfect. It captures, with the wheel of fortune, the essential mystery of chance that lies at the heart of the book, with echoes of the fairground where the young Azalea is abandoned, and hints of a buried romance; and it does all this in a brilliantly colourful way. The tag line if perfect (She believes in fate. He believes in fact. What are the chances of a happy ending?) It is so good, I wish I’d written it myself. So thank you Gail, and Steve and Edward and everyone else who contributed. I absolutely love the cover.

What do you think? Please let me know …

Father of the Bride (20th Feb 2014)

I hadn’t expected to be quite so emotional. I know I’d written a teary speech, and I’d joked to one and all that I’d be welling up, but deep inside I thought I’d sail through with my usual jolly demeanour. And then, five minutes before collecting my beautiful daughter, Zoe, from her room, one of the bridesmaids brought me a gift. It was from Zoe. A watch. On the back was engraved, ‘Dad – Forever your little girl.’

And that was it. I was in bits.

I went to collect Zoe and when she emerged, like a butterfly from a chrysalis, she was so beautiful I was crying like a baby.

Giving a daughter away should be the hardest thing in the world, but it’s the easiest. I’ve never seen Zoe looking so lovely, or so happy. My hand was shaking when I walked her up the aisle. I’m so happy for her, and I’m happy for my wonderful new son-in-law Ian (whom we all love).

It was a spectacular wedding. We took over the Wordsworth Hotel in Grasmere right in the heart of the English Lakes. In practice we seemed to take over the whole village. This was February. No one else was there. Every time I crossed the square I bumped into wedding guests. It should have rained – but it didn’t. The sun shone. The Prosecco flowed.  We had a brilliant cartoonist (Christopher Murphy), a stunning band (Superfreak), an amazing cake (Val Cooper), heart-stopping floral displays (Gill Maxim) and a whole load of wonderful guests. I only left the dance floor once in three hours. So thank you to my lovely wife Sue (who also looked gorgeous), to all our friends and relations, and to everyone who helped make the day go so well – the bridesmaids were fabulous – the best man was hilarious – the fireworks were awesome – the photographer was a genius - the flowers were spectacular; but thank you most of all to my stunningly beautiful daughter. I will never forget the day I gave you away. Forever your Dad.   

The Audio Book Experience

What is it like to hear someone read your writing aloud? I don't think I'd ever had that experience before. Not really; not reading whole chapters of text. Maybe that's why I was so nervous. Or maybe it was because the recording studio was in the basement cells of an old Victorian penitentiary in Clerkenwell, and as you descend the stairs you can't help thinking of the generations of convicts who made the same descent, never again to see the sun. Or maybe it was because I was about to meet the great Adjoa Andoh - who lest we should forget - appeared in Doctor Who and starred alongside Morgan Freeman in Invictus. Adjoa would be reading my book. My book! This is the actress who read all the First Ladies Detective Agency audio books. Nervous doesn’t begin to cover it …

But you can’t be nervous for long in a recording studio. The whole place projects calm. The walls are padded and people talk in hushed voices. (And there’s enough technology to fly a starship. But that’s by-the-by … )



The Brilliant Adjoa Andoh reading 'The Coincidence Authority'

‘I’m so pleased you’re here,’ Adjoa said, once we’d been introduced. ‘You can answer a question. What kind of accent would John Hall have?’ I was a little taken aback by this. John Hall is a supporting character in The Coincidence Authority. He doesn’t have a great deal of dialogue. ‘I don’t suppose it matters too much,’ I said. ‘Although I suppose, strictly speaking, he’s a Manxman.’ ‘That’s great,’ said Adjoa, and she looked over at Jenny, the producer. ‘Let’s re-record that last chapter and give him a Manx accent. He only has one line.’ ‘No, no, it’s okay,’ I protested. But Jenny and Adjoa had already made up their minds. Back they went through the pages. ‘She needs a bloody doctor, not a baptism,’ Adjoa read. In a Manx accent. I felt a sudden thrill. Those were my words. Spoken exactly as they were meant to be. If I’d had any reason to worry that they might not take my book very seriously, those worries had now been soundly spiked.

I knew Adjoa would be good. But I wasn’t expecting her voices to be so amazing. She gave Marion Yves a beautifully Manx – almost Liverpuddlian – twang. Thomas is a rather dusty, slightly hesitant, academic. Azalea is engaging and clever. And Clementine Bielszowska emerged perfectly as the inscrutable intellectual Eastern European that she is. The way that Adjoa supplies the voices you really don’t need my descriptions. You can close your eyes and see the characters, exactly as they were meant to be. And Adjoa does this reading a conversation that bounces back and forth between several voices. That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is a rare and remarkable talent.

There was more evidence to come of the thoroughness, and the amount of detail that goes into a good audio book. At one point the novel introduces the Biblical name ‘Shaphan.’ The context is rather oblique. It appears in a quick exploration of the origin of the name, ‘Azaliah,’ and this is because Azaliah (who becomes Azalea) is a central character in the story. In the Bible, we learn, Shaphan was the son of Azaliah. But how should ‘Shaphan’ be pronounced? All recording came to a halt while researches were done. ‘I really don’t think it matters,’ I said, anxious that this minor problem shouldn't hold everything up. ‘After all, who would know?’  But again my protests were ignored. Jenny consulted a book on biblical pronunciation (yes – there is such a thing); then a website; then another. Opinion varied. Shap-han suggested one; Shay-fan another. A debate ensued. In the end we went with the majority of academic opinion, and Shay-fan it now is. We’d spent several minutes on the single appearance of one name. Bear that in mind when you listen to the audio book.

It is a unique experience hearing your words read aloud, especially by as accomplished a reader as Adjoa Andoh. As a writer you have a voice in your head that speaks the lines in one particular way; an actor comes to the same lines with their own pace and delivery. The emphasis isn’t quite what you’d imagined. The rhythm subtly changes. It unsettles you at first. You have to relax and let it happen. But within just a few lines you’re sold. And the surprising thing (for me at least) is how much better a good actor is at reading your lines than your own internal reader is. Not just a little better – waaay better. This, I suppose, is why they do their job. When Adjoa read the story of the seagull I found myself transported into the scene even more vividly than I had been when I wrote it. And that is a rather spooky sensation for a writer.

I can’t wait to hear the full audio book of The Coincidence Authority. I sat in for four chapters and then I left them to it. There was nothing I could add. To be honest, I suspect I’d become a distraction. Still, I couldn’t have been happier than I was when I left. A very big Thank You to Orion Books and Strathmore – and to Pandora and Jenny and Adjoa. And thank you Adjoa for the anecdotes about Morgan Freeman and Clint Eastwood. It was an unforgettable experience.  




 

Lost in translation ...

A couple of weeks ago I received three books through the post. The parcel came as a surprise. It's 'Maximilian Ponderin Muteber Benyi' - the Turkish translation of 'The Notable Brain of Maximilian Ponder.' I knew that this was out and about in Turkey because of the generous tweets and messages I've received from readers, but it was still a huge pleasure to have copies to put on my shelf. I rather like the shredded paper on the cover; I know it bears no relation whatsoever to the contents of the book, but in a curiously existential way it manages to evoke the shredding of memories, which is ultimately what happens to Max. I look forward to the day (highly unlikely, alas) when we welcome Turkish visitors to our home, and I can pull them down a copy. Maybe they could translate some of it back to me.

It's an odd feeling seeing your book in translation. I'm sure that the translator (whom I don't know) has done an excellent job. I should love to meet him (or her) so that I could shake his (or her) hand and say thank you. It is odd to think that someone, whom I never met, spent weeks in the close company of Maximilian Ponder. I hope they grew to like him. Although, after translating 120,000 words, perhaps they hated him. 

I've tried copying an extract quoted on a Turkish website into 'Google Translate.' Here is Google's version of what the paragraph says:

In a way, I'm sure Max used to say, do not start in the middle. Only the Big Bang, the laws of nature emerged rastlantılarıyla awesome, non-stop expanding universe, the planets and the universe cooled in the atmospheres and conditions of primordial soup and, ultimately, as a result of natural selection does not mind you coming presence, I opened and closed walnuts on the table, and there's probably dead, lying dead Max Ponder as well. Here's the story, it did not bother him etmezmiş detail as if Max would say. Whereas was. Head broke the details.

That's probably better than my original. I shouldn't complain!

I don't understand a word of Turkish (to my shame), and  I've only ever visited the country twice - both times for dull business meetings. So if anyone from Turkey wants to visit us here in Market Drayton, we should be delighted to see you. I may even have an interesting book for you to read. (Even better, please invite us to Turkey and I'll bring the book along.)

The last I heard, 'The Coincidence Authority' is to be translated into French and German. 'Would the French enjoy a novel with a very English hero?' I asked my editor. 'They love the philosophy,' she told me

 

 

January and Editing Editing Editing.

January brings the snow, makes your feet and fingers glow. That's according to Flanders and Swan. But here in Shropshire it has bought cold slushy rain, following swiftly on the heels of a whole year of rain, and the little hamlet of Colehurst is awash with mud. Seriously though, don't you feel that January is always ... I don't know ... a little anti-climactic? We cheer the month in with a load of fireworks and communal singing, and then, well, it's back to work and the mornings are still dark and we're all spent out of cash.

Max Ponder is out in paperback. That cheered me up. I love the cover, and I do have to say that, for an author, walking into WHSmith's and seeing your book on the chart wall is a very guilty pleasure. Even if it is only at number 76. The Costa First Novel Award went to The Innocents by Francesca Segal. It is thoroughly well deserved for a beautifully written book. I've read all the shortlisted books, and quite frankly, I'd have been pushed to choose between them. Snake Ropes by Jessica Richards is delightfully quirky with a deliciously original voice, and The Bellwether Revivals by Benjamin Wood is a sinister and very erudite story of a damaged personality. I'm looking forward to meeting all three authors (I hope) at the awards bash on 29th Jan. I'll be cheering on Francesca. Of course. But if it has to be Hilary Mantel ... well I love Bring up the Bodies too.

I'm deep into edits for The Coincidence Authority right now. This is a humbling task. I can't believe the  number of elementary mistakes that my very brilliant editor, Kirsty, has spotted, and I groan as I turn each page to face a host of embarrassing bloopers on the next, every one clearly marked in black pen.  The writer Heinrich Heine wrote that, 'no author is a man of genius to his publisher.' Isn't that the truth. Still, you learn a lot about your bad writing habits in the editing process. I've discovered that I make far too much use of the dash - like that, and even, oddly ... the elipse. Most of these get converted to commas by my editor. She's right of course.  I'm addicted to unnecessary detail ('this isn't Max Ponder,' my editor writes in the margin, 'you don't need all this.' Right again.) And I'm blind to my own repetitions.  Worst of all, I tend to let my prose run away. It gets baggy. 'Tighten this!' Kirsty writes. 'Tighten' is now my mantra. It often seems that the passages my editor wants to strike out are the very ones that I was proudest of; I delete them with a heavy heart. 'These are only suggestions,' she has told me. 'Ignore them if you want.'  So sometimes I do. But there is an unexpected catharsis to taking editorial advice. I re-read each page with the changes complete, and damnit, the whole thing really does sound better. Now how did that happen?  Editors, I have decided, are the great unsung heroes (and heroines) of literature. I am lucky to have such a good one. But I still wish the process wasn't so painful. 

The Costa Shortlist

My phone rang when I was on a train. ‘I’m in a quiet carriage,’ I whispered, expecting heads all around to turn accusingly.

The caller was my wife Sue. ‘You need to phone Kirsty,’ she said, urgently. ‘She has exciting news.’ (Kirsty is my editor at Orion. Her news is always exciting. But what could this news be?)

‘What kind of ….?’ I began, but I barely had time for those three words before the train disobligingly plunged into a signal-free zone. There’s a stretch of the West Coast mainline up through the Lake District where you can normally guarantee blissful freedom from telephone disturbance for half an hour or more.  But could there be a less convenient stretch of the rail network, when you know there’s exciting news, but have no hint to suggest what that news might be?

I phoned Kirsty an age later when the train pulled into Carlisle. I had very few nerves left. ‘What’s the news?’ I asked.

‘Ahh well … it’s very exciting ….,’ she said. She was toying with me.

‘Please,’ I begged. ‘In twenty seconds, I’ll be on the long stretch of line to Beattock Summit and I don’t think cell phones have ever made it this far north.’

‘You’ve made the shortlist for The Costa.’

I have now discovered the reason why they have quiet carriages on trains. It was only the threat of opprobrium from my fellow passengers that prevented me from leaping onto the table and whooping.  Actually, of course, that last bit isn’t true. We British don’t go in for whooping much, do we? Especially not on trains. That would be an American response. So instead I said something very polite; ‘Oh gosh, how splendid,’ or words to that effect.

One week later and I’m still trying to come to terms with the news. It seemed (and still does seem) faintly unreal. Even sipping champagne with Kirsty and Sophie from Orion in Jamie’s Italian to celebrate, didn’t altogether dispel the feeling that I’m somehow occupying a dream that rightly belongs to someone else. I’m quite prepared for the letter that reads, ‘due to an unfortunate error your book was mistakenly placed in the wrong list, please accept our apologies…’ 

The truth is, I suppose, that book prizes do matter. They shouldn’t. But they do. I’ve recently emerged, scathed, from the ordeal that was the Guardian’s ‘Not the Booker Prize,’ from which contest Max Ponder managed to stumble home in third place. It’s a well-meaning attempt by the Guardian to democratise the book award circus, and to introduce a level of X-Factor voting into the mix. But it ended, this year, with a nasty squabble between the winner and the Guardian, and an unseemly email campaign for votes. So the news that Max Ponder had made the final four for the Costa First Novel Award was especially gratifying.

The other three books look impressive, and a little scary. I’m going to try to read them all before the announcement of the category winners on January 3^rd so that I can nod enthusiastically and say, ‘well deserved,’ when the decision is announced. The reviewer on ‘Front Row’ referred to us collectively as ‘young authors,’ which was kind.  The other three deserve the adjective, but I shall enjoy the association all the same. And I am looking forward to the announcement. That is true. It would be fantastic to win, but it’s great simply to be recognised. So I’m not thinking about winning. Well. I’m trying not to. I’ve got three more chapters of Book Three to finish, and a whole set of edits for The Coincidence Authority coming my way very soon, and a day job that actively consumes my time, and a Christmas calendar that is filling up fast, and those three novels to read, and a cryptic crossword to complete every day, and a five year old retriever that needs walking, and Christmas shopping to start thinking about, and a running machine that beckons from the conservatory every time I look out of the kitchen window. So let’s put all thought of the Costa aside – for the next six weeks at least. And if anyone confronts me, as they sometimes do, with, ‘OMG you made the Costa Shortlist!’ I shall smile like an Englishman and say, ‘yes, isn’t it splendid?’ Or words to that effect.