“Who could have imagined this” we say, as we realise we won’t be hugging our fathers on Father’s Day. But isn’t it striking how badly we failed to imagine everything about the world of Covid-19? Even in February, as the news was filled with reports that thousands of people were falling sick and dying in…
So here we are, lying low to the wall, as John O’Donohue wrote in the poem that was read on Radio 4 last week: behind our windows, stirring slow pots of comforting things, eating more beans than usual, baking or planning to bake, holding our pets or our kids or our pillows close and watching,…
A couple of weeks ago at the Association of Authors’ Agents AGM, I stepped down from AAA Committee after six years, the latter two in the role of President. I am proud to have worked for a trade association whose value for its members is unquestionable. I am not referring to our informative or social…
When the news breaks that a publisher has paid a huge advance for a new or emerging author, it sends a message to the industry. It signifies that – despite excruciating pressures on retail and variable results for debut fiction in particular – publishers still believe that they know how to make and find great…
I called for an industry behavioural code back in January because it seemed to me that a written statement was the only sufficient and appropriate response to the results of The Bookseller’s survey into sexual harassment in the book trade. The books business is founded on shared beliefs: in the importance of free expression, the…
As book people shall we recognise that last year was an important year for storytelling? For personal storytelling, because 2017 was a year in which many people’s stories were spoken out loud or written down for the first time. I am referring of course to the accounts given by those who have suffered sexual harassment…
I keep a number of half-formed essays in the Drafts folder of my blog, adding to and weeding through my ideas every now and again. I have revisited none so often as this piece of writing about sadness, which has grown long and wild over the past two years and yet never blossomed into something…
The first property we bought was a disaster. It was a flat with the most beautiful floor to ceiling windows. It should have been a lovely home, but there was a problem, in the building. I moved in with my mother to try to escape it, while my husband painted walls through the night so…
I spent this weekend reading. I read for hours in bed, in the bath, by the fire, on trains, at the kitchen counter, in bed again, on the stairs with a cup of coffee, in the bath again, bed, bed, lovely bed. I did other things too – well, I mothered – the house went…
Another year is turning: Time is drawing attention to itself again, bragging about how fast it's passing. Some days I let it swing by, grateful; but I ought to catch hold of its coat. In a few months I'll be forty-five. My teenaged daughter watched me getting dressed the other day and commented, pointedly: "You…