Try, try, try again.

Our garden backs on to a large wood and from late summer to early spring, wolf spiders exchange the oaks and elms for my little house. I wish they wouldn't. Last night one, as big as those War of the World beasties, thundered over the duvet towards me. As I screamed it went under the duvet and over my legs.

If you have no fear of spiders, then I apologize. This is vaguely connected in a Robert the Bruce kind of way, and is much more interesting and constructive from one who really knows his stuff:

http://oldenoughnovel.blogspot.com/2009/08/dear-writer-no.html

Fish Publishing

I'm very happy that my flash fiction made it into this anthology, but sad that the patron, Frank McCourt, has died. Anglea's Ashes was such an unsentimental tale of the worse of times.

I've just finished When Will There be Good News by Kate Atkinson. It was so brilliant I can't read anything else for a while and Reggie, one of her main characters, is constantly on my mind when I should be thinking about my characters. However, one of them has been behaving badly. I spent six weeks getting to know him and he's let me down. I never believed other writers when they wrote about their creations going off on a limb, but this is exactly what he' s done. I thought teenage sons were bad enough.

Fia of the Shed

My father, a burnt out advertising man, promised himself that when he retired he would build a shed and write his novel. It would have been good. I may not have liked it - his Gorbells humour could cut deep - but the writing of it would have satisfied him.

It never happened and now I am nearly the age he was when he died, I have his shed.
Of course it's not his or mine really.
The last tenents left it behind and no
wonder, it's so heavily insulated, I'm surprised it hasn't sunk into the earth.

Apparently, alledgedly, the last people grew funny plants in it. I did wonder at all the electrics and big lamps. And the spiders with their funky, unfinished webs.

I've wanted to show off my shed for a while but didn't want Debs to think I was suffering shed envy - although I do indeed envy her the lovely shed of sheds. And Grumpy.