Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

It’s noisy. Really noisy. The booming bass of several different sound systems, volume cranked to maximum, compete for precedence. There’s a crackling announcement on the tannoy, impossible to make out. And from behind the trees, comes the sing-song electronica of a fairground. It’s crowded too. In the park a patchwork of families spread themselves across the grass as it slopes down towards the main stage. Meanwhile long chains of people wind their way slowly around the perimeter, investigating the stalls encircling the performance area. And outside the park people line the streets, jostling for position, even though the parade they’re waiting to see is at least half an hour from starting.   We’re in search of food. And there’s plenty of it, although lengthy queues have already formed at each stall. We do a full circuit first, looking at every menu board, evaluating what’s on offer. To the untrained eye, every stall looks much the same. At the rear, a man wields tongs over a chicke

He knew that he must keep very still while he waited. He was crouched into an uncomfortable position to say the least of the matter and tried to maintain a good viewpoint of the illicit activities that were sure to unfold. He was ice cold from head to toe. In moments like this he tried to recall the scorching heat of India to warm his bones. Now he was back, returned to London and his curious profession of Private Detective which he found to be both intriguing and frustrating. He loathed and secretly admired Arthur Conan Doyle for creating the character of Sherlock Holmes. He was teased mercilessly by the delinquent youths outside his rooms who shouted, “Oi Sherlock!” at him on a daily basis, but admired Sherlock’s powers of deduction and his scientific techniques which he sometimes adopted to help with his cases. Of course, he also did not have the benefit of having a Dr Watson to assist him.  He was a man who was sorely alone both in his professional and private life. His wife had

I was invited to participate in this particular project in Sicily, because of my experience in enterprise and entrepreneurial skills development. I work across NGO, Third Sector and Private Sector Business development. The two of us, seated across three seats, is always going to be a lovely flight for me. My neighbour, was seated at the window, and me in the aisle seat.  She kept trying to strike up conversations with me in Italian. She was very jolly, so a lot of gesticulation and laughing ensued, as we mis-communicated excitably. Most times, I am just grateful that not everyone is as shy as I am, to talk to strangers.  I said Si a lot, when I ought to have been saying non capisco.  I am sure at one point, she was trying to find out my destination in Palermo, and how I was getting there. She mimed ‘steering a wheel’ as she talked. We giggled and she threw her hands up, and I shrugged my shoulders as we hit yet another wall . It was a few days into my visit before I fully under

Writing is many things but mostly it is a habit. As habits go, it is not as destructive as some, but also not as instantly rewarding as drinking or gambling. The rewards can feel quite distant with a large project such as a novel. So distant, in fact, that even the false summit of a completed first draft can be hard to make out in a swirling mist. To combat writing fatigue, general bone-idleness, and competing attractions (see drinking and gambling above) I have collected the writing mantras that speak to me. I write them on to post-it notes, and stick them to the wall above my writing desk. They come from many sources, including other writers and my wife’s interest in Buddhism. They help get me started on a writing session. Perhaps they might be useful to you. Better still, perhaps you can tell me how you remind yourself that writing – that poem, blog, chapter, play, or Tweet, is a very good idea and now is the best time to do it. Please add any suggestions via the Comments be