So it's 2010. A new year...a new decade.

My welcome Intruder.

I read a book a couple of years ago called The Intruders, by Michael Marshall. Without giving too much of the plot away, it's about the idea that maybe we're not entirely alone in our psyches, whether metaphorically or otherwise.

I joked afterwards that my Intruder was a fat woman who ate too much cake and hated the treadmill. This isn't true. That's just a ghost of an unhappy kid I once was. The adult me has never even been that fond of cake. My Intruder hates it.

Before you all start ringing for the crazy van, let me explain. We ALL have an Intruder. Yes, even you. The Intruder is the little voice at the back of your head. You know the one? Mainly they just sit there quietly letting you get on with things, but every once in a while they want to take the reins. And that's what 'She' is doing now.

Let me explain about my Intruder. Firstly, she really doesn't take any shit. She can spot a lie or a liar a mile away, and will sit inside my head with an eyebrow raised saying, 'Really? REALLY??' when I pretend there's a good reason someone's done something sneaky or bad other than perhaps they're just not very nice. I'm the queen of the second-chance. She is on the inside, shaking her head and saying, 'They're just a TWAT. Move on..'

Me - I make excuses for people. I like to give people an 'out'. She, on the other hand doesn't even make excuses for us. When I fuck up, she's the first there with the 'Well, what the hell did you expect? Reap what you sow.'

I like people and like to be liked. I worry about people liking me and if I'm too loud, too attention-seeking, too much 'too' all round. She really doesn't care what people think - not in that sense. She's happy just to be her. She's comfortable in her own skin.

I write the serious blogs. She makes people laugh in the pub after too much wine.

Me - I want to find true love and live happily ever after. I'm a secret romantic. She, however, loves the freedom of being on her own and tells me 'We all die alone anyway, and how many marriages do you know that actually work??' She lives by her own moral code - she'll do what she wants, with who she wants, when she wants. It's me that lies in bed at night sleepless thinking 'Why did I do that? What kind of person am I?' while she's crashed out at the back of my head, probably with a grin on her face.

She walks different to me. That's how I knew she was taking charge for a while. About a month ago I noticed I was swaggering more. That's her not me. When I say she's in charge, let's not get this entirely out of context. I'm still here and I have to flex some control. She likes to smoke. A lot. We've had words about that. She likes to party and we've had to have words about that too. There is some stuff we really are too old for, and as much as she may not like that, she seems to have agreed.

Different as she is to me, we are a team. We're on the same side. Shit, we are the same side. When I had to get up early in the mornings to write before work, it was her made me do it with a brutal, 'life is short. Get on with it. We dontt have all that much time for all the stuff we want to do.'

She gets me on the treadmill with a 'You want to be the fat kid again? You're 37. Time to work at it a bit.'

I have a sneaky suspicion it was her that quit Twitter behind my back.

It's been a good year for me and She workwise. I do the writing - she hasn't got the patience for that - but she's always the one with the business head, looking around for the opportunities, seeing where we are now, where we need to go next and she's doing us proud. She is ruthless in all things. I'm scared of everything.

And when I'm down and sad and hurt, she's the one that looks in the mirror and right into the core of us and says, 'you know what? Fuck 'em. We're doing okay.'

It's been a funny old year of ups and downs. I've concentrated on the downs too much. She doesn't do that and she's right. Those things will fade and be forgotten. Learn from them and move on. One day we will look back and laugh, if we even remember. The things we've achieved however, and the new friends we've made will be there for a long time. Celebrate them. Celebrate us.

So, complete cow that she can sometimes be, I'm handing over to her for now. She's got us covered. She's raring to go. There's a world out there and she wants to conquer it.

So here I am taking the mental back seat. It's comfy back here. I'm settling in. It'll do for now...until I feel the need for some 'Me' time.

Hope you're all well and you and and your Intruders have got the world where you want it,

Love, me. Or maybe she. Can you tell the difference? ;-)

Say No More.

I winked at a kid in Tesco Ghetto the other day.

His mum and dad were arguing in the biscuits aisle. Nothing major, just one of those day to day snipes the marrieds that shop together seem to have, but it was enough to distract their attention from little Wayne or Dwayne who trailed behind. He took advantage of that. I think D/Wayne was that kind of kid. He ambled sneakily to his left, grabbed a couple of small bags of Haribo and then slid them under the huge cereal box in the trolley. He looked up like butter wouldn't melt. He caught my eye. For a moment his expression darkened.

Rumbled. Caught. Shit.

And then I winked.

And smiled. He smiled back. We didn't need to say anything. We had a moment that was entirely our own. We both wanted to giggle. We understood entirely without words. There was just me and him and the rest of the world could go to hell in a handcart. I wheeled my own handcart away and left them to it. It made me think though. That wink.

The world is too loud, don't you think? Or maybe it's just me. It seems to be getting louder from where I'm sitting. Email, text, phone, facebook, Twitter, blogs - everyone filling every space with words. Needing to communicate. To get their point across. To be liked. To be loved. To make themselves heard. And yes, I get the irony of me making a statement like that. I do all of the above and then some. But recently all these words have started to wear me down. They're like a tidal wave and what does it all mean anyway? It's just words. Endless amount of words. Mine, yours, theirs. It's white noise.

A couple of years ago I was in a room with a man. We weren't standing near each other. Too many others stood between us, cluttered gatherings of conversations. I barely even knew this man beyond the occasional muttered hello. But I knew him enough to know he made my stomach go funny and my heart race a little faster every time I saw him. I stumbled through words near him. I made no sense. On this occasion, back in the days of stranger, I looked up from my own polite conversation to catch him looking at me. Watching me.

I winked.

His face cracked into a smile. Mine cracked back. The man beside me kept talking and I didn't hear a word. I was too busy smiling across the room. That wink had created a moment. The ones that come so rarely in life. A silent, private moment where two people look at each other and an infinite number of impossible possibilities open up. All the potential of what could be. All the things that you could never put into words. The whys and wherefores of what happened after that wink are neither here nor there. That moment I'll remember forever. I'll savour it, and sometimes take it out of the memory box and make myself smile all over again. There are men I've slept with that I'll forget before I forget that moment.

And not a single word was spoken. There weren't words that could cover it. I wouldn't want to even try to explain all that went through me/us in words. Words could break it.

Words are clever. We can twist them. Bend them into new shapes of meaning. Words make liars of us all by their very nature. We tell people what they want to hear. I would die for you. I love your new haircut. No, your arse doesn't look big in that. Great Christmas jumper, grandma - I'll wear it all the time.

Words, words, words. Fiction and fact. Cruel and kind. Always there. But we feel long before we have language. And it's the insides that are honest.

My dad used to wink at me. Normally when my mum was angry. You all know the wink. The kind that lets you know things aren't as bad as they seem. It'll be all right. I loved my dad's winks. The ones that were just for me. He still does it from time to time, often when we're standing in a bar, and I'm laughing along to one of his friends' jokes, and he's just feeling proud or fond of me. They make me feel six years old again. My dad doesn't do words. He never says 'I love you.' I don't think he's ever said it. Over the years and the many, many failed relationships, my dad's answer to all my problems is just 'Shall we go to the pub?' and then we get there we don't talk about anything much at all.

But those winks - they say everything that's needed and so much more. They're me and my dad summed up those winks. We get it. Without words. We don't need words.

I'm trying not to make this an essay - keep it short and sweet - keep the words down. I could talk about other winks. One in a pub after a week of unsure flirting, a wink that led to kissing in a car park ten minutes later and an affair that would kick the crap out of my heart a year later but c'est la vie. The less pleasant winks that promise so much other and create moments that send a chill across the pit of your stomach. Those moments can't be put into words either, but they're just the small dark clouds that pass across a sunny day.

One wink delivered while I was prison visiting in Woodhill. I was maybe 22 or 23 and just realising that these games I played were dangerous. I'd gone with my then boyfriend (he was on day release from Open prison himself), and his friend to see said friend's father - probably the biggest 'gangster' in Milton Keynes at the time. As we sat there sipping tea and eating our Twix I watched the other inmates and their visitors watching us. There were some frightening people there and I had a moment of dawning realisation that the most frightening was probably sitting on the other side of the table from me. I remember thinking that this would be a really really good time to keep my big mouth shut and just be quietly blonde for the hour. I remember for the first time feeling slightly afraid of these people that I considered my friends.

I looked up to see the man's son, then in his late 30s, watching me. My boyfriend was talking to his dad and unaware, but his friend had seen my face. He smiled and winked. It was a gentle wink. It said many, many things about him and his world and the expectations on him, some of which he probably wasn't even aware, but most of all I guess it said 'don't worry. This isn't your life. You're just passing through.'

He was right. I saw him a couple of years ago. He didn't recognise me. But I remembered that wink. And I'll always think well of him for it.

Don't get me wrong. Words are brilliant. I love them, I love using them and without them I wouldn't be able to do what I do for a living. But sometimes, in life, I just get tired of them. Words don't make you feel special. Not often.There's too many to sift through.

So, if you like me and want to make me smile don't give me your words. To be honest, I don't trust them. Find me in a crowded room. Look at me and wink. Make me smile. Give me a silent, private moment that's just ours.

Because winks don't lie.

;-)

x

Hey,

Hey,

Why the Chinese Should stop Eating Cats.

Let's get this straight before half of you switch off straight away. I used to have a dog. I am not a dog-hater. I like dogs. Dogs are great. They love you, they need you, they can't do without you, they constantly need your approval..Dogs make you feel great...The chinese probably should stop eating dogs too.

Dogs make you feel great with no effort at all....they love you unconditionally.

Get a dog. You'll be loved. Easy.

Meh.

Yes there are dogs. Man's best friend. And then there are cats. Cats are a different matter completely. Cats really don't need you to clear up their shit. They don't need you to show them the way home. In fact, cats really don't need you at all. And therein lies the beauty of a cat.

A lot of people are put off cats because of this apparent indifference. But actually, it's the cat's finest quality. If a cat stays with you, it's because it loves you. End of. They've chosen to stay with you. They've decided - normally after a good snoop around and evaluation of what other homes in the area have to offer - that you're the best person to co-habit with at this particular time.

That's got to be a good feeling, hasn't it? To be chosen rather than loved just because it's in something's nature to love and you're the handiest person with a lead and a tin of pedigree chum?

A cat will love you. It will curl up and rub faces with you. It will follow you from room to room and watch you work. It will come running down the stairs when you get home. Hell, mine waits outside the bathroom door for me in the mornings. When a sick friend came to stay, in the last week of that man's life I watched my cat crept cautiously up the side of the bed and tuck his head under the dying man's hand and just lay there. This coming from a cat that will normally clamber all over you and sprawl across your chest however he damn well pleases. I think the cat knew he was ill. The cat was gentle. Cats are sensitive like that. Sometimes I think cats chase ghosts in the night.

Cats don't just take, despite what some people think. A cat will bring you things. And not items you've thrown for it specifically to fetch. A cat will go and tear the head off a living thing and proudly bring you the body. Here's what I did? How great am I? And I'm giving it to you, because right now I think you're pretty great too and this is the best possible way I can think of to show you that.

Now that's love.

But you have to earn that love. And there is nothing unconditional about it.

Not ever.

It might not always be intentional, but a cat can hurt you when it plays. If you get rough then the claws will come out, and really, what do you expect? A cat needs to let you know that as sweet and affectionate as it may be on your pillow, it can draw blood. Cats can survive. You learn quickly how to play with a cat and let's face it you have to have respect for something that can hurt you so unexpectedly if you're not careful.

Unlike a dog, a cat will never try to save you from drowning. Primarily because they don't like water, and secondly a cat will think if you were stupid enough to get yourself into the situation, then what do you expect? There is no blind trust. Ever tried to get a cat down from a garage roof? You stretch your arms out to them, and you get a 'Really?' with a raised eyebrow. 'I've seen the clumsy way you move. Like you're not going to drop me? I don't think so...' as it jumps past your ladder and down your back to the ground.

Most importantly, a cat doesn't forget if you hurt them. A cat stores information. When you weren't available for a bit of lap action. When you forgot to re-fill the bowl. The amount of times you shut it out of the bedroom because you had a better offer. How many weekends you stayed away. If you don't put the time in, the cat will get distant. Suddenly your pillow is not it's favourite place first thing in the morning. It's in the corridor instead, seemingly infazed. Just watching.

Jealousy is a cat trait. Bring a puppy into another dog's house and the dog thinks it Christmas. A cat, does not. A cat will yowl and scratch and beat that kitten into submission because the cat knows that attention is limited. You see the change in cats that suddenly have dogs around. The cat becomes more aloof. The dog is too needy and the cat is too proud to fight for love. Why should it? Its love needs to be earned too, after all.

And like anything worth having, if you don't value it, you can lose it. Love's funny like that.

One day, maybe, if you don't pay your cat quite enough attention, you'll find it's moved next door. Maybe someone else was filling the milk bowl when you weren't looking. Sometimes it may creep back into your garden, but it will never be your cat again. You can see the change in the eyes.

You've got to stay on your toes with a cat. Because cats are clever. And independent. And they know a love that's worth having, and they know their love is worth earning.

I've been thinking about getting a dog. A puppy. Hell, I get needy too. I want some unconditional love. And then I catch the look in Mr Fing's eyes and I think, you know what?

Maybe I'm a cat kind of girl at heart.

Two women in Tesco Ghetto discussing a third.

People either get Twitter or they don't. I was slow to it compared to some, and it was only when I heard that the notoriously internet shy @ememess was tweeting that (once I'd stopped laughing..) checked in with my other guru of all things writerly @chadbourn and asked him whether I needed to be doing it or not. Back then, it was about another promotional tool for writing rather than a replacement for Facebook or about engaging in ridiculousness with new people.

When making this 'business' decision to sign up, I forgot for a nano-second that I am the girl that can't smoke without it being 40 a day, by-passed marijuana and went straight for the cocaine, and am eternally grateful that the one time I tried Crack, it just didn't float my boat.

Let's be clear, the days of my vices are long gone, but Twitter hooked me in the same way as Marlboro Red did back in the day, and within weeks I was tweeting an INSANE amount. I love the people I've met via it (my blog wouldn't be my blog without a mention of @elliottbeth these days), and feel like I've known many of them forever - some of them I now do know in the real world and count among as good friends - in fact, I met my new best friend and writing buddy, @juliansimpson through dicking around on Twitter.

BUT -

Let's face it - anything that is primarily a series of updates on your daily routine is going to appeal to the hugely egocentric. Anyone that knows me, (@porthouse, I see that raised eyebrow) will know that I'm firmly in that bracket. Yeah, us Twitteraddicts aim to be funny or clever, but sometimes it really is as banal as 'Off to the gym.' Oh yeah, trust me - I have sent that tweet, as if the Twitterverse REALLY needed to know my exact movements, because frankly I am THAT important.

HOWEVER -

There are some Tweeters that are using the whole system to do some good. For them Twitter is actually about drawing attention to OTHERS rather than themselves and have seen the potential market for attention that Twitter can create for smaller charities that can't afford the national campaigns of their larger competitors, for want of a better word. It's a couple of those people I want to mention here. I hadn't heard of either of their fund-raising and awareness work until somehow our Follows crossed paths, but I'm totally inspired by both of them, and in awe of what they do.

First: @paul_steele

https://www.anthonynolanevents.org.uk/paulsteele

This man is constantly climbing mountains and raising money to combat Leukemia and raise awareness for the need for bone marrow donors. He's made me want to go and get registered. On twitter he's funny, energetic and always ready to help promote other good causes as well as his own. This one is a real diamond geezer, I reckon. Last year he summited Kilimanjaro for the VSO as can be seen here, and then wanted to do something for the Anthony Nolan Trust. I might have gone on a 24 hour sponsored starve or something - this man is going to climb Mt Aconcuaga in Argentina. Check the photos - Now that's commitment and inspirational in itself.

Paul on top a mountain..........and one he's yet to scale!

Second: @jessicastrust

http://www.jessicastrust.org.uk/

This charity has been set up by Ben Palmer who lost his wife to childbed fever. She was 34. He now has nearly 3000 signatures on a petition to the government to do more to raise awareness in health workers that childbed fever is still a real threat to pregnant women, even those who are young and healthy.

This man campaigns relentlessly and it's been amazing to see the people who have signed his petition and re-tweeted about his campaign. Jonathan Ross and his wife, and even the God of Twitter himself, Stephen Fry have helped this man in his aim.

I'm not a mother, and I've kind of reached a peace with myself that there's a pretty big possibility that I never will be, so although this charity doesn't affect me personally, as a writer I find it totally fascinating. If I was @carolematthews and could do the 'people story' stuff I'd write a book about this man and his wife and tell their story. This is a charity that has been born from lost love and there is something achingly lovely about how relentless this man has been in promoting this charity. In fact, when I see La Matthews on Thursday for coffee I might just suggest she thinks about it.

Anyway - if you're on Twitter check these boys out. Follow them. Show your support. Go to their websites and do what you can.

They're the kind that give Twitter a GOOD name..

me x

I had a road to Damascus moment this weekend. It hit me on Saturday night at about 8pm in a darkened room. Sounds dramatic? It was. Literally.

Let's be clear so you can stop worrying- I have not suddenly found the good Lord (which comes as quite a relief to me) - this was a revelation about someone's writing - something much relevant to what makes me tick.

I finally got Hamlet.

You know. The play. That one by Shakespeare.

As anyone who knows me or has taught with me or has been taught by me will testify, I will often declare in a mutter, 'I fucking hate Shakespeare. Shakespeare and poetry. Meh. Get over it. Move on. Write a fucking paragraph.'

It's not that I didn't understand that there was some beautiful language in the man from Stratford's plays and it's not that I didn't understand the stories; I could see both of those things quite clearly - they just didn't touch me. It was all a bit out of date for me- I'm a Stephen King girl and proud of it.

And then along came Saturday. And blimey, did I change my mind.

@Elliottbeth (see mac-buying escapade) text me last week to see if I fancied going to a preview of Hamlet with Jude Law in the lead and her BFF Kevin McNally as Claudius and then go for some wine. To be fair, it was the word 'wine' that grabbed my attention rather than 'Hamlet'. I had a slight internal wince when she said the performance was about 3 hours long, but I stuck with the image of the wine glass and some giggles with my new fab friend and hopped on the train in the glorious sunshine.

We grabbed some food, had a natter and then wended our way to the Donmar to fight our way to our seats. As the theatre darkened, I let out a little sigh and fully expected to be wriggling in my seat and examining the lighting rig within twenty minutes.

And then the play started.

The problem I'm going to have from here on in is not to sound like some gushy American, (apologies to all non-gushy Americans, and in fact to any gushy Americans who buy my books), but even four days after the event I can get tingles thinking about it.

It was fucking brilliant. End of. The set was beautiful and the performances were outstanding. Jude Law was a totally breath-taking revelation (and I speak as one who was firmly in the Clive Owen camp in Closer) who owned the stage throughout, and the supporting cast of Claudius, Gertrude and Polonius put in exceptional performances that kept me gripped.

I've read Hamlet, studied it and taught it until the mere mention of that word could cause me to sick up a little in my mouth, so the turnaround in my opinion has more to do with the actors and director of this version than the words themselves. But it was the words that they breathed life into. Words that I'd thought were dead and done and had their day.

Suddenly, as the action unfolded, I could clearly see the arcs of every character and the damage they did to themselves and each other as the tragedy unfolded. Each performance was so well-drawn that even when it was revealed that characters such as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, normally just the butt for a Tom Stoppard joke, were dead, my breath hitched a little. Every nuance in the language was clear, and the layers in the story filled the stage. During Claudius' prayer scene, my heart ached for this man who was tormented by his self-awareness, a feeling that only served to make his cold brutality more chilling. The 'to be or not to be' speech, delivered in drifting snow, was astounding. Jude Law IS Hamlet in my head now.

When the interval came and the curtain lifted, I couldn't believe an hour and a half had passed. I looked at @elliottbeth and saw my own somewhat dumbfounded expression staring back at me from her face. I think we both muttered 'Fucking hell, it's brilliant,' which was about all we could manage. The second half was equally so, and if it hadn't been for @elliottbeth's stomach launching into a loud grumble in the last five minutes...I think I might have cried.

I suddenly saw the passion of the play. The interplay between the characters, the mix of hate and love and self-loathing that brought them all to their ultimate conclusions. The cynical weariness of the old, versus the hot-headed passion of the young, and the parallels between the two.

I came out of the theatre feeling an urge to write something brilliant and beautiful about characters people would care about and feel for. I'd been inspired by Shakespeare. It was real; it was alive, and it still mattered. I felt like I'd watched a perfect movie. I wanted to talk about it to everyone I knew. I wanted to write a screenplay rather than a book, something I could create the bones of and then a group of other people could bring to life in the flesh and blood way that Hamlet had been brought to life by the people on that stage for me.

Like I said. Road to Damascus and all that.

This blog wasn't supposed to be a kind of review, but it's somehow turned out that way. It was supposed to be about how I'd suddenly seen the point of Shakespeare and how I wish I could have found it earlier, when I was teaching or starting out in writing, or even when I was at school. It was supposed to be about the enduring nature of good characterisation and gripping plots. It was supposed to be calm, cool and rational analysis of brilliant writing suddenly discovered.

Sorry about that. Sorry that I've rambled, but maybe that's all you can do when you're hit with something that changes the whole way you think about something. Maybe those kind of emotions can't be expressed clinically. Maybe they can just be felt.

Before I go off and try to crystallise this inspiration, I'd like to end with an apology and a thank you. Firstly, apologies to you Mr. Shakespeare, late of Stratford and the Globe. I know you're dead and everything, but sorry for being so dismissive about your stuff. I take it all back (well, about Hamlet at least...let's start slowly). But better late than never, eh?

Secondly, a huge and heartfelt thanks to the director and cast of this production of Hamlet for sharing their brilliance with me, and bringing something so long dead so vividly to life. I owe you. You rock.

Me x

I saw a cat run over once.

I can't believe it's the Summer term already.

This means that instead of the originally planned six months out of teaching, I've had almost a year, and thanks to how well the year's panned out it looks like my teaching in the future will consist of either occasional supply or a part-time two days a week. It's a strange feeling. Admittedly, I only taught for 6 years, but I crammed whole career into that. I was Head of English by the start of my second year and if the writing hadn't started taking off I'd probably be an Assistant Head by now (if I'd just once in a while kept my mouth shut, and learned to not say 'But that's fucking ridiculous' in meetings...)

Now let's get this straight - I've adjusted to writing full-time. I like it (the full-time bit better than the actual writing obviously) and I really, really don't want to go back to work, but the prospect of it has made me think about teaching again, and to be honest, I can't think about teaching without smiling. It's the kids, you see. They get you.

It's a much overlooked relationship, that between teacher and students. Parents forget about it. They forget that teaching is a subtle thing, and sometimes the best way to get kids to learn is to not realise they're doing it. Sometimes the things you have to teach children are less about the curriculum and more about life and fun and having principles and being fearless.

While hauling stuff in from the garage now I'm back in my house I found a photo album that had been given to me as a leaving present from my year 11s at a rough school in Luton. They'd gone round the school taking loads of photos of themselves and each stuck in letters about what they loved about our class and memories of what we'd done (them making horror film trailers, me asking how to spell NSPCC cos I'd forgotten - my finest teaching moment), and even after 3 years I could look at their pictures and laugh. Mark, whose gran used to make spare sandwiches for my lunch, Steph K, whose example of an abstract noun (something you can't touch) was a shark (cos you wouldn't want to touch one, would you?), and Dani 'Miss..when you drown, do you die?', who went on to get some ridiculous amount of GCSEs. Charlotte who made me travel to the ends of the earth to watch her being fab in a dance show..Conor Quigley who introduced me to Night Watch..etc etc...Most of all I remember us laughing. A lot.

Now of course they're all teetering on adulthood and track me down on Facebook and we laugh at the old days. I will forever be fond of them and I hope they'll remember me as a good thing about school. Some will, some won't, but I hope they'll remember that even when they totally flipped my lid, I cared about them. Kids in rough schools especially need to know that, and care is something you can't fake. Some kids need the stability of someone who'll provide them with guidelines. Someone who'll be patient, and someone who won't carry over yesterday's freak out or explosion into today's lesson.

I didn't manage all of those if I'm honest- humour was my only tool - but I've worked with some awe-inspiring teachers who have literally changed children's lives with their care, approachability and sheer over the odds hard work. Kids are honest. They will never pretend to like you. If they think 'fuck you' then they'll say it. They'll hate you just because it's easier. They'll fight you to get kicked out rather than face the possibility of trying and maybe failing. They'll smash things up because they have no idea how to say what they're feeling, often about things so far removed from school and what life should be in your schooldays that it's scary. But underneath all of that, they're just kids. They're just people. They're just like you or me. And when you see that through the cracks, it makes all the rest of it worthwhile.

When I needed a change in pace so I could concentrate on writing, I moved to a much more middle-class school. An ofsted 'outstanding' school, and I was worried that I wouldn't like the kids as much. But I was wrong. Kids are kids. And they will always make me laugh. Hearing 'Pinny! I've got an essay for you!' yelled down a corridor from a child who is so far behind deadline they're looking likely to fail is a great feeling. Laughing with sixteen year olds is a great feeling. Watching them achieve is a great feeling. Seeing them grow and change and get more confident is a great feeling.

I was not an excellent teacher. I'm too up and down, too 'radical' I think was the word my last school used, I hate the beaurocracy, I get bored too easily, and it only takes a kid to say, 'tell us about that time...' and it's pens down and learning's over for the day. But I loved the kids. The kids could make a bad day okay. You can never fail to be surprised by a group of 30 fifteen or fourteen year olds and the things they'll say and do. If they respect you, or trust you or like you it's because you've earned it. They don't yet have the facade of niceties they'll develop in the adult world. Teaching can be exhausting, but its also exhilarating. Teenagers have an energy about them that is infectious. They are an ocean of limitless possibilities and making them realise that with a lot of hard work they can pretty much do anything they want to is a good job to have.

There is of course that saying; those that can, do and those that can't teach. Or some such shit. Well, bollocks to that. It devalues some excellent professionals who can do what it is they do, and that's educate better than the rest of us. Teaching isn't about subject knowledge or marking books or talking at people all day long. Teaching is about the kids.
And you know what? The kids are alright.

And just to keep you up to date on the business end of things:

Last week I finished the first draft of A MATTER OF BLOOD (Book 1 for Gollancz). I'm hoping it's good. It was certainly the hardest I've worked on anything in a long time and the change from Horror to Thriller was a really good buzz for me and I'm already (kind of..) looking forward to starting book 2. I've farmed it out to a couple of people whose opinions I really value so I'm now just nail-biting in wait for their feedback..there may be wine..Still, I'm way ahead of deadline (seeing a book advertised for pre-order on WHSmith website when you've only written ten pages can really spur you on...) so I've got plenty of time to put any wrongs to right.

What else? THE LANGUAGE OF DYING will be out from multi-award winning PS Publishing in June in time to launch at this year's NeCon in Rhode Island where I will be breaking my Guest of Honour virginity...

TORCHWOOD: INTO THE SILENCE I think is now out in July rather than May due to various BBC issues

Oh and finally, FEEDING GROUND (more big spider things wreak havoc on London town..;-)) will be out from Leisure in October..
Boring stuff done...

me x

Well, Happy New Year!

...admittedly a little late given that it's mid-Fed, but better late than never! So happy 2009 and may it be a good and safe one for all.

I have had a great start to the New Year. I went to North Carolina for a month to visit one of my best friends Liz Clapton. She's been teaching in Goldsboro over there for almost three years and after several 'almost visits' I finally got my act together and sorted out tickets etc. She'd been over here for Christmas to see her family and so we flew back together on the 20th December.

We started as we meant to go on - neither of us are great flyers (call me old-fashioned, but a huge metal box weighing several tonnes, 36,000 feet in the air and with me in it does not fill me with confidence) so by 8.30am we were embracing medicinal wine in a Heathrow pub and giggling like Edina and Patsy (I fear I was Edina...).
I continued on the wine adventure throughout the flight whereas poor Liz had to drive us home at the other end and so was forced to stop. This was reflected in our attitudes to the turbulence we hit - Liz gripped the armrests and went pale...I dribbled and said 'Weeeee!' like an excitable child. I think she was probably relieved when I finally went to sleep (passed out) for an hour or so and she could panic in peace.

We hit the ground running - the sun was shining (but if you ever visit North Carolina in January - don't trust that sun! T-shirt weather in the morning - Snowy blizzard by the afternoon!), and we shopped for the first day and then headed into Raleigh to hook up with the Fab (capital F) Alex Sokoloff and her Boyf Michael for New Year before going to Charlotte for the weekend.

We stayed with friends of Liz's and had a great time visiting...yes - lots of wineries (7 people in a pick-up - it was cosy, but we all knew each other well by the time the day was done!) and then going to The Cheesecake Factory - the BEST restaurant in the world - and eating and drinking loads and playing ridiculous board games into the night. Once back in Goldsboro, I met Liz's housemate and the cat and the dog and we settled into our ridiculous existence together.

I won't go into the details of the whole month cos I'd be here forever, but as you can tell I loved it. We got stuck on a mountain, made mojitos, I learned to drive on the other side of the road and didn't crash once, I held a .44 Magnum (NOT LOADED!), got stuck in a blizzard,and laughed a lot. And - I still managed to get some writing done.

What's my point? I'm a writer. And now that I'm not even a teacher any more, I spend a huge amount of my time existing in stories in my own head. I write. I go to the gym. I read. I write some more. And then of course there's the scourge of the work from home individual - I Facebook. God help me, I now Twitter. I spend a lot of time 'interacting' with people on-line and think its the same as sitting down and sharing a really bloody good laugh. But of course it isn't.

Fab 'best friend' and fellow MK resident Carole Matthews always tells me to make sure I do some living. It's where the ideas come from. And of course she's absolutely right. Writers need that inspiration. But what I have to remember is that me - Sarah the person, not the writer - need the living bit too. And that was what my month in NC reminded me.

So I'd like to thank (animals in brackets!): Tim & Shelley (and Daisy Mae), Claire & Chip (and Mushroom and Tater Tot), Geoff, Rachel & Liz (and Hanna & Savannah) for giving me the absolutely best holiday I've had in ages. You're all brill and you've made me realise that when my friends text and say 'Do you fancy...?' or 'Why don't we...?' that I should not reply with 'Um..I just want to finish this chapter.' or 'I need to go to the gym.' but just get out there and have fun with the people that make me laugh and cry and who don't have to text me status updates so that I know how they're doing.

Real Life's what it's all about after all, isn't it?

Sarah P xx
www.facebook.com/sarahpinborough
@sarahjpin
;-)

Well, as the title says I'm very happy to have been signed up by the lovely Jo Fletcher and am now a Golly Girl...(although at times I fear I'm more a 'By Golly!' girl...;-)).

They've contracted me to write a thriller trilogy for them which I'm dying to get started on. I'm hoping the books will be quite unusual..dark urban thrillers with a twist of the supernatural is what I'm aiming for.

Anyway, I'll be starting the first one in January once I've finished the current horror, written a short story I owe and done some planning and research, and I'm really looking forward to getting stuck in.

Merry Christmas!
me x

Hi,
The lovely boys from BloodyBooks have interviewed me for their website. You can read our witty exchanges about writing at: http://horrorreanimated.wordpress.com.

And while you're at it, you should by both Bill Hussey's 'Through a Glass, Darkly' and Joseph D'Lacey's 'Meat'
Both strong new UK horror voices not to be missed..

me x

I can't believe it's been so long since I blogged. And given that I no longer have a 'proper' job that's just ridiculous...Anyway - here now!

So - where to start? Oh yes, Scotland.

What can I say? It didn't work out... Don't get me wrong - Scotland is a lovely place. I'm half-Scottish, it's in my blood to love it, but once I'd waved Sam, Andy and Nyah off back to the beaches of Dubai, life got very quiet. VERY. I had a very idealistic view of writing in my Scottish hideaway for a few months, but to be honest, now that the day job is ditched, by five o'clock after writing all day it's definitely wine time - and I'd moved a seven hour drive away from all my wine time buddies!

I stayed a month during which time I wrote TORCHWOOD: INTO THE SILENCE (BBC books, May 2009) so that was productive, but I was bored, lonely and missing my friends, so after a long chat with lovely Lucy on the phone I decided to come back down to the glory of the south. So here I am I'm back in the much maligned and under-estimated Milton Keynes surrounded by friends and only half an hour from London (a girl should never be more than an hour on the train from London, I've decided...) until Christmas when I'm heading stateside to spend a couple of months in Raleigh, NC with Liz and Alex. By then I'll have finished FEEDING GROUND (Leisure Oct, 2009) and be ready to start on something new.

I do have to send a thank you North of the Border to Sam and Andy's lovely neighbours who stopped me going insane during my month of solitude. Cathy and Ray and their daughter Kirsty (and her daughter Katie!) were so welcoming and shared my love of both wine time and the X-factor so we had several mad nights of alcohol, Nachos and ridiculous games during my stay. Lovely fabulous people, and Sam is really lucky to have them guarding her house....even if we did have some problems figuring the alarm out...but then maybe we should have done that BEFORE starting the wine for the night! ;-)

A few days after returning to the glories of England Fantasycon was upon us. I got up at stupid o'clock to pick Chris Golden up from Heathrow and I was glad that I did, cos the problem with conventions is that you never get enough time with all the people you want to spend time with, so at least we had that couple of hours to catch up and I got to hear how Connie was getting on with her teacher training (I feel her pain..) and how the boys and Lily were.

The Con was great as always and I caught up with all the usual crowd over late curries and too much bad wine..I didn't win Best Novel, but was happy that Ramsey did so all was well there and I didn't have to stab anyone with my butter knife.

Life since then has been quiet...I was cleaning some kitchen cupboards (so domesticated) and the steps I was standing on slipped away, leaving me with cracked ribs and torn muscles..so its been writing and TV for the past few weeks..BUT World Fantasy in Calgary is this coming week, and I'm really looking forward to that.

There are a few recommendations I'd like to pass on:

Alex Sokoloff has been running some very good articles on novel writing over at her blog - if you're interested in writing etc then defo check them out at:
http://thedarksalon.blogspot.com/

Bookwise I've just finished reading Graham Joyce's /Seamus Heaney's,'The Memoirs of a Master Forger'. It's the kind of book I've come to expect from Graham - completely baffling to define in terms of genre, but a beautiful, quirky story that had me gripped throughout and left me thoughtful and moved. You can't ask for more than that really.

Two more recommendations come from collections I picked up at Fantasycon from two really brilliant writers whose styles are very different, but each a master of the short story in their own way.

Mark Samuels' 'Glyphotech and other macabre processes' , from PS Publishing is a very dark collection of stories with a real sense of creeping terror in the tradition I would say of the old masters like M.R James...these actually scared me, which is no mean feat... I think I've been a bit slow coming to Mark's work, but he really is a hugely talented writer. One of the stories from this collection 'A gentleman from Mexico' can also be found in 'The Mammoth book of Best New Horror' ed Stephen Jones and I actually don't think that's the best story in the collection which will give you some idea of the quality of the work. Anyway, I suggest you find this out for yourselves! The book can be bought at:
http://store.pspublishing.co.uk/

The second collections is:

Paul Meloy's 'Islington Crocodiles' from TTA Press. I'm at a loss to describe Paul's work and do it justice because he really does have a unique voice and although at times both humorous and shocking, his stories always leave something with you. I've been a fan of his for a couple of years and I think he really deserves more attention from readers as well as the praise he's garnered from fellow writers - see below.

“In the stories of Paul Meloy – where walk the living dead, genetically modified pandas, and the mad and terrible Nurse Melt, among others – raw, tell-it-like-it-is comedy brawls with trippy horror in a cage match for the human soul. Take a front row seat. Try not to get any blood on you” Joe Hill

Islington Crocodiles can be bought at:
http://ttapress.com/511/islington-crocodiles-by-paul-meloy/

That's about it from me for now.
Have a good November,

Sarah x