Books are like Christmas turkeys in more respects than might immediately be apparent. They take some preparation; there’s always more stuffing (in my case historical research) than will neatly fit; and once you’ve finished, they need to rest. My latest work in progress, currently called The One, is now at the resting stage. Sometimes I look at it, careful not to disturb. It must relax before my final attack with the carving knife. If I tell you that once it comprised 92,000 words and has been shorn to 72,000, you’ll see I’m nifty with the carver. On school visits, readers never believe that the delete button is a writer’s best friend. Perhaps it’s one of those lessons, like avoiding harem trousers, that you have to learn for yourself.
Summer has come, and possibly gone, here in Glasgow. Abandon sun, all ye who enter here. I comfort myself that our weather is probably better for the skin.