KITES AT SWANAGE

I JUST LOVED THIS photo of Sonia trying to fly a Chinese kite at the very end of August. One of those idyllic days in Dorset, this strange summer that was supposed to be full of sunny days that somehow failed to materialise.

The kite was my present from China. It looked wonderful and caused quite a few stares, but was almost impossible to control. It took off from the packaging, an endless string of connected lantern-shapes that wanted to be off over the sea like a flock of birds. It reminded me of St Ives - those colours, the wind whipping up the white caps.

It was all so much easier in Beijing apparently. The salesmen made it look easy, but the spars turned out to be little more than strips of bamboo, the fabric was tissue paper and the string thinner than cotton.

Afterwards we bundled the tangled remains into the car boot. We'd sort it out later. But the knots were tight and tiny and the cotton intractable. Maybe it was only meant to fly once. It did its job joyfully, like the tail end of summer.

Readers' Group

A readers' group is a ruthless killing machine.

The readers' group where I work gave its verdict on Box of Tricks this week. They'd had the book for about six weeks so there'd been plenty of time to absorb it and while there's normally some gossip in the corridors of mirth about the book under consideration, this time there was none - or at least none in my hearing. The noisy members of the readers' group clammed up when they saw me approaching. Their whispers fell to silence.

What were they plotting? Had they thrown Box of Tricks across the room in anger? They preferred to wait until Thursday lunch-time before saying anything. Torture.

Well, of course they were OK about it. They liked it, they said. The characters were vivid, the plot kept them interested. Maybe they were only saying that because I was sitting there. They didn't want to hurt my artistic sensibilities. Probably they'd orchestrated their response beforehand in one of those focus groups. There might have been another meeting - to which I wasn't invited - where they'd said what they really thought.

When does a book take on its proper identity? What do I care? They told me it was OK. That's all that matters.

Thanks...

Well, I haven't been a good blogger. But today I checked and found I have some followers. So, dear blog-followers thank you for being patient. I'm humbled. As my last blog entry was in January that is super-patient.

Today I did a reading as part of Birmingham Artsfest with Mez Packer. Thanks to Mez, too, for a good chat and great advice and for mentioning me on her blog on http://www.mezpacker.co.uk/

You must read her novel, Among Thieves, published by Tindal Street Press in March. Her reading from it today was brilliant.

And you can vote for my new novel, Box of Tricks during September in the fiction section of the People's book prize. It's on http://www.peoplesbookprize.com/ I have a bit of catching up to do, so every vote will count...

I'll try and be a better blogger in future.

ON BEING TOO KIND TO BOOKS

I was always taught to be kind to books and to treat them with respect. A bit like elderly relatives. Don't fold the spine back, you'll break it, don't draw moustaches on the pictures of Noddy. Never write in the margins.

But isn't there something wonderfully subversive about defacing books? You can make your own wise observations then return them to the charity shop. Something profound, not too obscene. It's good to show your ignorance here. Try jotting 'over the top' with exclamation marks in the middle of Hamlet, or 'pathetic fallacy' almost anywhere. Poems are easy to notate with comments such as 'imagery!' or 'why not iambic pentameter?' But if you want really profound marginalia there's nothing better than the cryptic shopping list. 'Jam' for instance or 'quail eggs' will keep readers guessing for years.

That's why I've taken to buying paperbacks from Oxfam. I can make my own notes. What works, what doesn't. Is it a good story? How did she do that? Why?

Deep in pencil markings the novel almost looks more loved. And there's nobody looking over my shoulder asking me what I think I'm doing.

LOSING A GRIP ON REALITY

Isn't it reassuring to know that according to a recent survey nearly one in four people believe Winston Churchill was a myth and more than half think Sherlock Holmes was a real detective who lived in Baker Street?

This is great news for us fiction readers and writers. According to newspaper reports on the survey Britons are 'losing a grip on fact and fiction.' But isn't that what fiction is for? What's the point having it if you can't actually believe in it?

So I'm all for blurring the boundaries between fiction and (so-called) reality. Gandhi was produced from the fevered imagination of a film writer, but Wing Commander Bigglesworth lived and flew shaky kites in the south of England from around 1915 to 1964 when he was pensioned off from the RAF at the age of seventy. Heathcliffe is real of course. Richard the Lionheart is made up. Wasn't he in that cartoon about Robin Hood? And 47% believe Charles Dickens was a myth! In that case who wrote Mr Micawber? Perhaps Dickens was an invention of his own characters after all. Did Oliver Twist write a book called Charles Dickens?

The real irony though is that the highest accolade for a real person is to 'achieve mythical status' like Churchill and the highest achievement for a fictional person, like good old Sherlock, is to become human. Sort that one out.

TEST: Be honest - who did you think was real? Who do you wish was fictional.