An Arvon retreat and a book coming out – can life get any better?

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On Saturday, I got back from an Arvon writing retreat at Lumb Bank, the beautiful Arvon writing house overlooking the Calder Valley near Hebden Bridge in West Yorkshire.  This is my fifth writing retreat, and for the first time ever, I didn’t go with a rigid goal in mind – finish a complete short story; write two new chapters; edit ten chapters.  I’m at a slightly odd stage at the moment, because  *drum roll* my debut novel, The Things We Never Said is being published tomorrow (whoop whoop!) and although I’ve completed a first draft of my second novel, I’m waiting for some feedback before starting on the rewrites. So this time, I didn’t actually have anything specific to do!


It was wonderful –  probably the first time I’ve been on a retreat without feeling under extreme pressure to make significant leaps forward with a work in progress. This time, I allowed myself to thoroughly enjoy the experience. I went for walks down into the valley, along by the river, and then up much higher to take advantage of the spectacular views. I also drafted a couple of features, did some reading and spent some time thinking about my next novel. 

Considering it’s the middle of May, the weather was, shall we say, interesting. It was pretty chilly the first couple of days, and while walking through the wild garlic and unseasonably late bluebells, we got rained on, hailed on, and almost swept off the path by high winds. But it sort of adds to the experience in a way.

I always sleep with the window open at Lumb Bank so I can hear the river at the bottom of the valley and breathe in the crisp Yorkshire air. An added treat on the third night was a dramatic and satisfyingly lengthy rumble of thunder. 

In the evenings, people tend to congregate in the sitting room for a glass of wine at about 6.30 before dinner is served at seven, and then most of us hang around chatting and drinking wine for the rest of the evening. The final night, Friday, is usually given over to readings, and as is often the case, I was blown away by the talent that was revealed as people read from their novels, biographies, sketches and short stories  It was a particularly lovely group, and it was a joy and privilege to spend this time in the company of such friendly and interesting writers. 

The retreat lasts from Monday to Saturday, and as always, it’s over too soon. But here I am back home with drafts of three articles and a jumble of images, characters and half-formed ideas for my next novel tumbling about in my head.

I feel rested, ready to tackle the rewrites of novel number two, and even more ready to enjoy the immensely exciting experience coming up *second drum roll*  the publication of my debut novel. The official release date is tomorrow (23 May), but people have started receiving their pre-ordered Amazon copies today. I’ve received my twelve free author copies, and am now signing them to send around the family. 
If you’ve had a book published yourself, you’ll have some idea of how I’m feeling at the moment. Someone asked me a few days ago how it felt to hold a copy of the book in my hands for the first time; I replied that it wasn’t quite as good as holding my newborn babies for the first time, but it came a close second. 
I’m probably not going to be able to stop myself from going and peering at it on the shelves in Waterstones tomorrow, and then after that, I’ll be getting even more excited about the launch next week.
If you’re in or near Sheffield, do come and join me – I’ll be reading from the book and signing copies afterwards. That’s if I don’t explode with excitement in the meantime! The launch is at Waterstones, Orchard Square, Sheffield, on Wednesday 29th of May at 6.30-8pm, and there will be a glass of wine!

Urban Writers’ Retreats

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I’ve long been a fan of writing retreats and have been on several run by the Arvon Foundation. These usually take place in a rambling old house, nestling in the heart of glorious countryside. They run from Monday evening until Saturday morning, so there are four clear days in which to write, and five evenings in which you can write if you wish, but which are often spent chatting with other writers  over a glass of wine or three. It’s an incredibly supportive and encouraging environment, and the total immersion in what you’re doing, together with the creative energy created by a group of writers living and working together, is extremely productive.
But how would it work, I wondered, with an urban retreat, which usually lasts for just one day and takes place in a busy town or city?  When I heard that there was to be an urban retreat here in Sheffield, I signed up pretty quickly. I’m finishing the first draft of my second novel and I thought some focused time away from the distractions of home – the Internet, the dog, the laundry – could be just what I needed. But there would be no beautiful countryside in which to walk when I got stuck, no evening round the fire with a big glass of wine. Could it possibly be as conducive to work as the residential retreats have been?
Reader, it could. It was; it is! The day started at ten, and the first fifteen minutes or so were spent talking with the other writers. The words of a sceptical friend rang in my ear, “I don’t think you’ll get much done,” he said. “I think you’ll all just chat.” But then the organiser led a brief introductory session so that we all knew who was who and what we all hoped to achieve, and then we settled down to work at our laptops, and for the next few hours, nothing was heard but the soothing tap of fingers on keyboards.
Throughout the morning, cups of tea and coffee with an accompanying tin of biscuits magically appeared at my side. At lunchtime, there was a general clicking of necks and stretching of legs. We ate the light lunch provided, talked about how we were all getting on, and quickly got back to work. The afternoon progressed much the same as the morning, only perhaps with a renewed intensity as everyone seemed aware of the time running out.
The retreat was due to finish at five, and as the time approached the clattering of the keys got louder and faster as we all tried desperately to get just that little bit further before we had to leave.
By the end of the day, I had got more work done than on any other single day that I can remember. I finished a scene I’d been struggling with, wrote a new short scene, and did a significant amount of rewriting and editing.
I staggered home stiff and aching, jittery from the coffee, half-blind from staring at the keyboard, and slightly dazed from the sheer intensity of it all. But the overwhelming feeling was a sense of exhilaration at the amount of work I’d  achieved.
This particular urban retreat cost £30, including all refreshments. I couldn’t afford to do it very often, but in my opinion, it was £30 well-spent, and I’ll be booking another one in the very near future. For details of this one (Sheffield Writers) and others around the country, see links below:
In the West Country: Retreat West
To find out more about me and my work, including my debut novel which is being published in a few weeks by Simon & Schuster, have a look at my  website

The best laid plans…

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Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. I just looked at my New Year blog post last year in which I resolved to:
  1. Write for at least two hours every morning
  2. Resume ‘morning pages’
  3. Do all my teaching admin in the afternoons
  4. Restrict time spent on twitter to 2 half-hour sessions a day
  5. Take one or two days a week off
  6. Write a blog post about writing, reading or food once a week
Reader, I failed. Miserably. In fact, the level of failure is so great that I’m surprised I’ve got the nerve to admit it to myself, never mind confessing it to you lot.  So before I make a new list of ‘intentions’ as Isabel Ashdown has so wisely called them in her New Year blog post, Good Intentions for 2013, I want to look at what went wrong: 
I’ve been thinking about it a lot and I’ve come to the conclusion that if I fail at the first one, I’m doomed to fail at the rest. The problem is that if I’m not progressing on my novel, I feel guilty about doing any other sort of writing – bang goes number two and number six. Naturally, if I’ve not worked on my novel, I can’t possibly take a day off – bang goes number five. Number four was just unrealistic. I should have realised that Twitter just doesn’t work like that. Some days, Twitter is packed with interesting links, blog posts etc which I know I won’t get around to reading if I don’t read them immediately. And sometimes, I just need the virtual banter that Twitter provides. That leaves number three, and I almost managed this one, but if I wasn’t working on my novel and if I was spending too much time on Twitter, the guilt would creep in again and so I’d do a bit of teaching admin just so I could feel I’d done some work.
So this year I’m going to concentrate on my novel, and I’m going to change my aim slightly. Instead of  ‘write for at least  two hours every morning’,  I’m changing it to ‘work on the novel for at least two hours every morning’. This will hopefully stop me from beating myself up if I’m not actually writing. I’m struggling with RSI in both arms at the moment, so typing is a huge problem anyway and my time could be just as valuably spent doing some planning and thinking about where it’s all going.
Hopefully, if I can stick to this one ‘intention’ some of the others will follow naturally, but I’m not going to set myself any other firm targets this year. There will be blogging and there will be Tweeting, but maybe not so frequently. Finishing this novel is the most important thing, so if the other things happen, that’s great, but if they don’t happen, then they don’t and that’s that.
The coming year is going to be busy but also very exciting.  Not only will I be finishing my second book, but my debut novel is coming out in May, and I may well die of excitement! Also, we’re moving house. We’re not going far, only a mile or so up the road, and the house we’re buying is only slightly bigger than the tiny one we’re in now, but it’s near to some nice little cafes and some lovely dog-walking areas, and the most important thing is that it feels right; it feels like a house I can be creative in.  What’s more, I get the bigger study this time!
So for me, it’s a new year, a new house, a new routine, and a new approach to work. I intend to have a productive and guilt-free 2013.
Here’s to a happy, creative and fulfilling year for all of us!
For more about me and my work, visit my website

What I’ve read this year

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I started by thinking I was going to do a top 10 of 2012 reads, but to be honest, it’s been such a good reading year that I’d struggle to pick my ten favourites.
Perhaps the most surprising discovery of the year was the result of a book I picked up for 50p in a charity shop. I fondly remembered the first two Adrian Mole books, so when I saw Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction, I thought it might be a pleasant distraction. I enjoyed it so much that I ended up wanting to re-read the first two (which didn’t disappoint) and then go right through all the other books in the series.  I haven’t actually read them yet, but I’m looking forward to reading The True Confessions, The Wilderness Years, The Cappuccino Years, The Lost Diaries, and The Prostrate Years in 2013.
As you can see from the list below, there have been a few other re-reads this year, all of which I have enjoyed just as much, if not more, second time around. When I know what happens at the end of a book, I love spotting how the author sets it up through the earlier chapters. It makes me think that we should read every book twice!
The only book I really struggled to finish this year was Me Cheetah, which I read for my book club.  I loved the first 50 pages or so, but once  you get but the joke – it’s a spoof memoir full of scandalous gossip surrounding Hollywood stars of the 1930s and 40s – it all seems a bit repetitive.
The two books that stayed with me the longest were Archipelago (review of Archipelago) and the Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, which was one of the most unusual and touching books I’ve read for a long time. Other highlights were:  Hurry up and Wait, (review of Hurry up and Wait) Jubilee, (review of Jubilee) My Dear I Wanted to Tell You, God’s Own Country, (review of God’s Own Country) Tideline, (review of Tideline) When It Happens to You, The Hunger Trace,  Rook, (review of Rook) How to Be a Good Wife, and…oh, so many of them!! I’ve reviewed a few of them, as you can see, but sadly I just don’t have time to review them all. 
Anyway, perhaps you’ll find some ideas here, or maybe you’ll decide to re-read something you’ve already read once.
January
Carry me Down by M J Hyland
Hurry up and Wait by Isabel Ashdown
One Day by David Nicholls
February
Jubilee by Shelley Harris
The War Horse by Michael Morpurgo
Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes
Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction by Sue Townsend
March
The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole aged 13 3/4 (re-read)
The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole (re-read)
My Dear I Wanted to Tell You by Louisa Young
Before I go to Sleep by S J Watson
A Movable Feast by Ernest Hemingway
April
Ordinary Thunderstorms By William Boyd
The Road Home by Rose Tremain (re-read)
In the Kitchen by Monica Ali
May
Gods Own Country by Ross Raisin
The Victorian Chaise-longue by Marghanita Laski
The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (re-read)
June
Tideline by Penny Hancock
A Perfectly Good Man by Patrick Gale
When it happens To You by Molly Ringwald
July
The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce
The Hunger Trace by Ed Hogan
Rook by Jane Rusbridge
The Cement Garden by Ian McEwan (re-read)
Me Cheeta by James Lever
August
The Leftovers by Tom Perotta
My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time by Liz Jensen
Me Before You by Jo Jo Moyes
The Untold Story by Monica Ali
Archipelago by Monique Roffey
September
Even the Dogs by John McGregor
Last Orders by Graham Swift
How to be a Good Wife by Emma Chapman
October
Secret History by Donna Tartt (re-read)
The Help by Katheryn Stockett
November
The Hand That First Held Mine by Maggie O’Farrell (re-read)
The Believers by Zoe Heller
When God was a Rabbit by Sarah Winman
December
A Good Man in Africa by William Boyd
TBR This is my read-over- Christmas treat: Instructions for a Heatwave by Maggie O’Farrell
So, I made it to 42 this year – I’ve been aiming for 50 for the last few years, so failed again. Oh well, another wonderful reading year beckons.
Merry Christmas to everyone, and happy reading!
 To find out more about me and my work, go to my website

Notebook, diary, journal – one book? Three? More?

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Just a few of my notebooks…
I really need to sort this out. It occurs to me that I usually have at least, I mean at least three different books-that-I-write-in  on the go at any one time: an all-round notebook, a diary, and a journal. According to the Oxford English dictionary, a diary and a journal are one and the same thing, but I tend to use it differently, as I’ll explain below. So here’s what I’m using at the moment: 

The all-round notebook:  I like to have this with me all the time, therefore there are currently four (yes, four)  versions: a hardcover A5 one that sits on my desk,  another A5 one that stays beside my bed, a cheap exercise book that I carry in my handbag, and a small notebook that fits in my jeans pocket when I walk the dog.  These are where I record ideas, snatches of dialogue or description, and character sketches that are often but not always relevant to the novel I’m currently writing. It may be one line about a character, it may be a particular word that a character might use, or it may be an entire plotline. The all-round notebook is also where, if I’m on a train or if I find myself waiting for an appointment, I occasionally do a bit of ‘freewriting’, or even start writing a scene or a snippet of dialogue.  The notebooks I keep in my handbag are now almost always very basic exercise books, because then I don’t feel any pressure to write beautifully – I can make it beautiful when and if I choose to type it up later.


The diary:  I’m currently using a beautiful little book that was a gift from a friend. The first entry in this one is dated 2003. I’ve kept a diary on and off since I was nine – sadly, the childhood diaries are lost, but I remember my first ever entry: ‘Today, I put my sister’s hair in rollers. They got stuck’. Riveting, eh? Despite my early introduction to diary writing, I’ve never managed to get into the habit on a daily or even weekly basis. This is something I am constantly resolving to change. My diary tends to be fairly personal, containing thoughts and feelings as well as observations. I aim to record important events in my life too, although flicking back, I see that there have been major events in recent years that I haven’t written about, some happy, such as my daughter’s wedding – I was too busy with food, outfits and  relatives, and some not so happy, like my daughter’s life-threatening experience of childbirth earlier this year – I was too immersed in shock, worry and fear. (Thanks to the skilled surgeons, she got through it, and she and the baby are now fine.) I sometimes record trivial things like the weather, or what I ate for dinner, and when I remember, I note what things cost, or what is happening in the world and how people feel about it. How I wish I had done this regularly in the past – it would be such a useful resource!
The journal – a writing companion
The Journal: my journal is a sort of planner and companion to my work-in-progress. It’s where I talk to myself about how it’s all going, which directions the plot might take, possible structures for the finished novel and but how I’m feeling about the characters. This is also where I write character sketches, lists of possible scenes, things I need to research, revisions I need to make and so on. I might also record discussions I’ve had about the novel, whether it’s with my agent or editor, or whether it’s with other writers. The current journal is a nice A4 size, and it has dividers so that I can (theoretically) organise my notes.  I write in this fairly regularly, especially when I get stuck.
What seems obvious now but clearly hasn’t been in the past is just how difficult it is to separate these aspects of my writing life. I may record an interesting dream in the all-round notebook, but I see that dreams often feature in my diary as well; if I’m struggling with my WIP, I usually write about it in the journal, but if I’m feeling down about my work, it’s emotional and personal and impacts upon my life, so that entry’s just as likely to end up in my diary. And if I’m downstairs writing in my journal when something that should go in the diary (which is upstairs) occurs to me, I’ll bung it in the journal.

So you see, it’s all a bit shambolic, really.  And of course with so many different books, it’s hard to get round to reading them all, and there’s not a lot of point in making notes and observations about life if you never read them. Maybe I should just keep one book at a time and put everything in it. Or would that be a bad idea? What do you think? What are your notebook habits?

Should you read fiction while you’re writing?

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    We all know we mustn’t drink and drive, but is reading fiction while writing as risky for the well-being of our novels as drinking while driving is for the well-being of our fellow man?
    Some writers think so.  Some writers claim that they never pick up a novel while they’re writing for fear of being influenced by whoever it is they’re reading. What do they mean by ‘being influenced’? Does it mean there is a danger that we might start writing like those authors? If so, quick! Bring me a pile of books by authors I admire and respect and would give my eye teeth to emulate. I’ll give anything a go. Would that it were that easy!
    Or do they mean that reading novels might cause the words of other authors to somehow seep through into their own writing and sully the masterpiece they’re currently creating? Again, I’ll risk it.
    I have mixed feelings about reading while writing. On the one hand, reading something within my genre can give me a kick-start when I’m floundering. When it’s a writer I admire, the rhythm of the prose and cadence of the dialogue can really inspire me and make me itch to get back to my own work.
    But on the other hand, becoming engaged with a wonderfully written novel can be counter-productive in that I often find myself reading when really I should be writing. Also, I can end up losing myself in the novel I’m reading to the extent that I find I’m spending my spare time thinking about those characters and that author’s fictional world rather than thinking about my characters and my own fictional world.
    If I’m honest, I know that I’m better able to throw myself into my own novel when I’m not reading somebody else’s. The absolute best thing that can happen to me is when I’m trying to read a novel but find I can’t concentrate because my own characters are dominating my thoughts.
    Having said all that, how can we not read? The idea of living life without a novel ‘on the go’ is completely alien to me. So somehow, I’m just going to have to find the right balance.
    What about you? Do you find reading fiction while you’re writing is a help or a hindrance? 
    For more about me and my work, visit www.susanelliotwright.co.uk

    And to access a list of recipes and book reviews on this blog, go to: recipes and book reviews and scroll down the page (past the writing bits)

In Praise of Personal Shoppers

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Writers need personal shoppers! We’re always short of time and money, not to mention inspiration, and whenever I go clothes shopping, I end up wasting a hell of a lot of the first two because I’m so lacking in the third. I’d always thought that you only used a personal shopper if you were wealthy and fashion conscious, or if your son, daughter or best friend was getting married. But I kept seeing those ads telling me that a personal shopper could help me with anything, whether it was a dress for a special occasion, a new work outfit or a complete wardrobe update.
Now, I don’t have any special occasions coming up  – my daughter got married a couple of years ago, and it took me four solid, gruelling days to find something suitable. I can’t afford a complete wardrobe update, and like most writers, my daily commute is a trip up the stairs and across the landing to my study, and my ‘work outfit’ usually consists of faded pyjamas and a coffee-stained dressing gown, (or if it’s my turn to take the dog out, mud-splattered jeans and a baggy sweatshirt).  But I do occasionally emerge blinking into the sunlight in order to teach my evening classes or even to socialise.
I try to make myself at least look reasonably tidy when I’m teaching, although my students are very forgiving and if I turn up in dog-walking jeans and with rubbish hair, they don’t seem to mind. But I have become increasingly aware of the fact that all my jeans, having faded and lost their shape, now look like dog-walking jeans. And also, I have far too many black T-shirts – faded black T-shirts at that. The painful truth is: I need  new clothes.
I hate clothes shopping. I hate it with a passion, and I don’t have time for it. It’s usually a whole day trawling the shops, the painful revelation of the many-mirrored dressing room (you know, the ones that show you the back and side views of yourself as well as the front view); the misery of having to confront my spare tyre, and the disappointment when the garment that looked so gorgeous on the hanger looks like a dog blanket once I’ve got it on. I end up going home with a pair of jeans that don’t fit properly, two more black T-shirts, and a brightly coloured top that I’ll never wear. Another day wasted when I could have been working on my novel. Money wasted, too, because it transpires that I end up not liking the jeans or one of the black tops. I then spend the next day beating myself up because I’ve wasted so much time and money.
But now something wonderful has happened – I’ve discovered the joys of the personal shopper.  I broke my ankle recently,  and was still hobbling around on crutches when I realised that the clothes situation was quite serious. There was no way I could walk around town for hours trying to find jeans that fit properly or a new top that wasn’t  another black T-shirt, so I booked a session with a personal shopper, making it clear that I needed very basic things – jeans, a couple of tops, and maybe a new bra. I forgot to mention my bras, which are rather like the T-shirts – black, faded and, shall we say, a little tired.
I found the experience easy, stress-free and almost pleasurable. I sat in a changing room the size of a small bedroom, flicking through the magazine and drinking my complimentary cappuccino while the personal shopper, a wonderfully patient and ever-smiling young woman called Sophie, bought me selection after selection of jeans, tops, and bras. She put up with my succession of rejections, her smile never faltering when I told her I didn’t like the neckline, wasn’t sure about the colour, felt it was too old for me, too young for me, the sleeves were too puffy, too long, too straight, the leg was too wide, too narrow, the waistline too snug, too loose. Honestly, if I’d have been her, I’d have slapped me. But she just smiled and went off to find yet more items for me to try.
An hour and a half later, I emerged with three pairs of jeans, three tops (none of which are black!) and two bras, which are not only pretty, but which actually make the faded black T-shirts look slightly better. Since this wonderful shopping experience, I have worn everything I bought. I was out and back in just over two hours, and three weeks on, I still like every single garment.

Oh, forgot to add – the service is free, too! (It’s free in Debenhams, anyway – I think some stores make a small charge but it’s usually deducted from any purchase you make.)

I will never, ever try to do my own clothes shopping again!
For more about me and my work, visit www.susanelliotwright.co.uk

And to access a list of recipes and book reviews on this blog, go to: recipes and book reviews and scroll down the page (past the writing bits)


Review of Archipelago, by Monique Roffey

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I knew I’d like this book, because it’s got a lot of sea and a lot of weather, and I like a bit of sea and weather. But I didn’t realise what a treat I was in for. This book is beautiful; one of the most beautiful books, in fact, that I have ever read. The writing is, in many places, exquisite, and characters so real they have taken up residence in my heart.
After a devastating flood sweeps through their home in Trinidad, killing his baby son, Gavin takes his six-year-old daughter, Ocean, and their elderly dog, Suzy, and sets sail in Romany, the boat he owns with a friend but hasn’t sailed for years. It’s a spur of the moment decision and it soon becomes clear that he hasn’t quite thought it through. But Gavin cannot continue in the life that he’s been left with. Is he running away? Perhaps. But it’s more of a journey of discovery. He needs to find out who he is now that the flood has swept away his identity as a husband and father, provider and protector.   ‘His wife made him healthy, stable. Now he is half-himself, not himself.’ 
It was the power of nature that took so much away from him, and it is as though he now wants to face nature, to put his trust in it once more.  As they sail through archipelagos and out across the vast ocean, they come up against nature’s violence and treachery, which is vividly, often viscerally described:
‘The boat begins to buck and nosedive into the waves…forward and then backwards; up and then down; restless unpredictable rollercoaster movements…He’s forgotten how quickly the sea can change. One moment it can be flat, quiet, agreeable, then of another mood entirely, wicked and vexed. The sea can be a bitch. She can hurl you  from your bunk, have you vomiting out your guts, lash you with stray halyards. She never wants to be taken for granted.’
But they also encounter moments of startling beauty and joy. They see flying fish and brightly coloured coral; they swim with dolphins, and they encounter many other wonders of nature.
I won’t deny that this book has some terribly sad moments. I sobbed – I mean sobbed – more than once; but I also felt the more positive emotions, the awe, the delight, the amusement, the love. This is Monique Roffey’s real skill; the observations are so acute, the imagery so perfect, that not only do we see what the characters see, hear what they hear and smell what they smell, we actually feel what they feel.
The relationship between father and daughter is beautifully drawn. Gavin is often humbled by his daughter, by her trust in him and by her perceptiveness. He observes her closely and suffers with her:
‘He can see her puzzling…she is quietly working out how many different types of loss might exist. Many, my mermaid. Many.’
I loved the characters in this novel, especially the three main characters, Ocean with her little Snoopy sunglasses, Suzy, the faithful dog who eats with them,  sleeps with them and swims with them, and Gavin, who is a good man, struggling to cope. This is a novel of loss and grief, but also of the power of love and life. When I’d finished it, I didn’t want to start another book for a while, because I wanted to dwell on this one for just a bit longer. I’m pretty certain I’ll be reading it again.  
For more about me and my work, visit www.susanelliotwright.co.uk

And to access a list of recipes and book reviews on this blog, go to: recipes and book reviews and scroll down the page (past the writing bits)

Review of Rook by Jane Rusbridge

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I absolutely loved Jane Rusbridge’s first novel, The Devil’s Music, so I was very much looking forward to Rook. And what a treat it turned out to be! It’s now some weeks since I read Rook; various things have conspired to stop me from reviewing it until now, so when I came to write this I was concerned that I may have forgotten large parts of the novel. I needn’t have worried; as soon as I began to flick through the pages, I was drawn in again to this strangely haunting and atmospheric story.
Nora, an accomplished cellist, returns to Creek House, her childhood home in Bosham, West Sussex in order to come to terms with the break-up of her relationship with Isaac, her teacher and mentor. Nora attempts to fill the hole in her life by running near the sea and giving cello lessons to local children. But it is only when she comes across a half-dead baby rook in a ditch that her life begins to regain a sense of purpose as she nurses the fragile creature back to health. Rook, as she calls him, becomes a strikingly present character in this novel and is wonderfully described, both as a sick baby bird, and later as a rather feisty adolescent:
‘Rook hops and swaggers across the floor towards her. He pauses a little way from her feet and, with a twitch of his head to one side, eyes her up and down. With an extravagant shimmy of feathers, he shakes out his wings before stretching out his neck to dip his head in greeting, his long-feathered tail fanned as proudly as a peacock’s.’
Nora has secrets; she has lost Isaac, and seems to have abandoned a promising musical career, but we don’t know exactly why. What has driven Nora to return to Creek House and a mother with whom she has a strained relationship, to say the least? Ada, whose memory is fading and who spends increasing amounts of time in the past, has secrets of her own. She is bitter and self-centred, and she’s tetchy and snippy with Nora. The tension between them thrums throughout the novel.
There is little comfort here for Nora and perhaps this is why, with the help of Harry, the quietly perceptive odd-job man who works for Ada from time to time, she focuses her attentions and affections on Rook, whom she nurtures until he becomes less a cute baby bird and more an intelligent, perceptive and protective force to be reckoned with.
The other ‘character’ with whom Nora finds real meaning and solace is her cello. At one point, she goes down into the cellar of Creek House to play:
‘… she sits without thinking further and, with the urgency of long deprivation, begins to play the Martinu Cello Concerto no 1: the first movement – Allegro poco moderato. When she’s finished, her arms are shaking and she’s breathing hard. Heart racing, she leans her head against the cold of the cellar wall.’
She is overheard by Harry who sums up not just the emotional depths, but perhaps the very purpose of her playing: ‘This is something else and it’s like…an excavation.‘
The theme of things being buried and uncovered runs through the novel as the relationships between the characters and the secrets they harbour are examined against a backdrop of an even bigger excavation – the potential exhumation of the body of King Cnut’s illegitimate daughter, who is buried in the local church.  
A novel of complex relationships and the uncovering of buried secrets; the language is lyrical and the rhythm of the prose melodic, reflecting the music that is so much a part of Nora. This novel made me want to listen to cello music and then run out to the woods to watch the rooks; As with The Devils Music, the landscape is beautifully evoked. Jane Rusbridge has an incredibly sharp eye for detail, both in terms of nailing the aspects of a character’s personality, and also in terms of the imagery. This is an exquisitely written, atmospheric and deeply affecting novel.
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What I did on my Holidays (or what I read during my month away from Twitter!)

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Okay, so the previous blog post talks about how I managed to do loads of reading during August as a result of not being on Twitter – and of having a week’s holiday in the Yorkshire Dales, and breaking my ankle two days after we got back.  Forced immobility is good for some things!
 So, if you’re interested, during August I read:
Me Before You, by Jojo Moyes (I was halfway through this at the beginning of the month) This was recommended by a friend, and when I saw the cover and read the first few pages, I thought it was going to be a light and fluffy love story. I have nothing against light and fluffy love stories, but wasn’t really in the mood for one. Anyway, it turned out to be far more than that. A love story, yes,  but it was deeply moving and affecting, and with some much bigger themes to think about.
The Leftovers, by Tom Perrota What happens to those left behind after  millions of people disappear in an event that may well be ‘The Rapture’?  Loved the premise, loved the book. Well-written, unusual, and thought-provoking.
Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction by Sue Townsend  Like most people, I read the first two Adrian Mole books when they first came out. But now Adrian is in his late thirties and is still full of angst. Not about the WMD, though; his trust in ‘Mr Blair’ is implicit. I’d forgotten just what a clever writer Sue Townsend is.  I now plan to go back to book 1 and read the whole lot in sequence.
The Untold Story by Monica Ali  What if the Princess of Wales had faked her own death? I wasn’t convinced by the premise – how on earth could a loving mother watch her sons attend her funeral? But Monica Ali has painted such a believable portrait of the troubled Diana (‘Lydia’ as she’s now called), and of her complicit and slightly besotted private secretary, that by the end of the novel, I was totally convinced. Lydia’s intense loneliness and sense of hopelessness comes across well, but this is a ‘warts and all’ representation, and that makes her a very real character. There’s sadness in this novel, but Lydia does manage to wring SOME happiness from her new life.
Archipelago, by Monique Roffey  I’d say this was the highlight of my summer reading. A man is left to care for his 6-year-old daughter after a devastating flood sweeps though their home in Trinidad. The book deals with love and grief and loss,  and with terrible destructive power of nature, as well as its sheer and utter joy.  Sobbed my heart out.  A beautiful book. (full review coming soon)
In the Kitchen, by Monica Ali  This novel appealed to me because the story centres around a chef and a hotel kitchen – having been a chef myself, I loved this aspect,  and the observations are spot on. It was immediately clear that Monica Ali had done her research (in fact, I looked it up, and she said research took a year and she ‘chopped a lot of onions’!)  The novel’s scope is wide, possibly too wide, in that she attempts to tackle themes around immigration, slavery, identity, the world of work, family relationships, mental breakdown, human trafficking and more. I did enjoy this novel, but at 550 pages,  I felt it could have been shorter.
Even the Dogs, by Jon McGregor  I loved Jon McGregor’s first two novels, but wasn’t sure I was going to like this one, which is about addiction and homelessness, and is undoubtedly bleak. The story, which opens with the discovery of a decomposing body, is disturbing and distressing, but it’s so cleverly written that I quickly became closely engaged with the lives of the characters. This novel shows how easy it is to make judgements and assumptions about drug users and alcoholics; it also shows how precarious our ordered lives are and how easy it could be to lose everything. I was left with a powerful sense of ‘there, but for the grace of God…’