Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Most of us have heard of National Novel Writing Month, but how many have actually tried it? The first time I did it, I was writing on my own – didn’t belong to any groups – so I just got my head down and went for it. I had the sense to try a fantasy, which wasn’t really my ‘thing’ but I’ve found it’s certainly the easiest way to reach that target of 50,000 words in 30 days. This year I’ve done a second novel to follow on from my first ‘turn-of-the-century (nineteenth) detective novel. Lots of encouragement to put it all together, but difficult to sustain over 30 days because of the minor detail of historical accuracy and the need for continual research. In one chapter, my heroine went into town on half-day closing. Except that as soon as I typed it, I realised that half-day closing didn’t become general until the 1912 law was passed – my book is set in 1899. Think again! This time round I do belong to writing groups and others in those groups are also tackling NaNoWriMo. We sup

It was on his fiftieth birthday that Frank’s mother began to haunt him. Which seemed a coincidence as it had been on her fiftieth birthday that she had died. Frank had just undressed and got into bed. Which is the truth but doesn’t really portray the way in which he’d ripped his clothes off and leaped on the naked girl who was the latest in a long line of similar ladies who had been attracted to his bed by a combination of his money and his…well, just his money, to be honest. She screamed and sat up, shivering with fright. Not from Frank’s actions, though they had somewhat startled her, but from his mother’s ghostly appearance by the window. And Frank found her arrival a little disconcerting too. “Mother!” “Hello, Frank.” The girl gasped. “Is that your mother?” “I’m afraid it appears to be, yes.” “But she’s a…” “Well, she would be. She’s been dead quite a few years.” The girl screamed again, scrambled out of bed and, gathering her clothes, while avoiding going near

The sound of the last cannon echoes into infinity and dies. War is over. ‘Peace is declared,’ they have said. The guns at the front, they are still. But this song in my head has a drumbeat to kill. I am consumed, not by peace, but by dread. Politicians congratulate themselves. Negotiators sign, unwind and recede into the shadows. ‘Peace is declared,’ they have said. The guns at the front, they are still. But this song in my head has a drumbeat to kill. It runs through my days like a thread. The world grows bright, breathes sighs of relief. Normal lives, for some, are resumed. ‘Peace is declared,’ they have said. The guns at the front, they are still. But this song in my head has a drumbeat to kill. I yearn for some calm times ahead. The loss is weighed on balance sheets, in lives. But the ultimate price is unknown. ‘Peace is declared,’ they have said. The guns at the front, they are still. But this song

            Linda needed help getting the guy out the back of her Landrover.             "Grab the head," she told me, "I've got the feet."             The Guy Fawkes effigy was still wrapped up in an old bed sheet except for the black papier-mâché hat. It fell off and I caught a glimpse inside the sheet. I turned back to Linda.             "I thought you were joking!"             Linda ran the local chippy. It was a small place in an especially dull corner of the village. The most excitement that had happened recently was the massive order of wooden forks that had come through in early October.             Linda set the delivery men straight about the mistake immediately but they didn't want to hear about it. The paperwork said that she would either receive the whole delivery or the lot would just be taken back. She gritted her teeth and signed on the dotted line.             "I swear," she told everyone that day,