That invisible hand, wind, kept me off my bike this morning. All those trees waving around are the cause – have you noticed that when the branches are still, there is no wind? So a brisk walk to a nearer papershop for the sunday paper – although why I bother when the Saturday Guardian remains 80% unread, and the previous Saturday review pullout fallout cries for me to read it or regret missing the gems within.  My windblown body with reddened dessicated face collapsed in a comfy chair in my conservatory in time to catch Radio 4 Desert Island Discs. Anthony Horowitz was the castaway. Grrr, another successful writer, who while excellent, cannot refrain from his gloats over us wannabees.

He once said: “It’s strange. Years ago I sat in a room and wrote a book and suddenly it’s like I’m Richard Branson…sitting in the middle of a huge business that’s all over the world.” Ah – well I’m glad I didn’t write a book sooooooo many people wanted to read then! I mention him though, not for his music selections, which I’ve forgotten already, but for the more memorable comment that he writes for five hours every day. That’s a lot, I thought, until I realised when my fingers were held up, that I too spend about that time writing. Not all on my stories though, which is where I must be going wrong… 

I had a dream last night in which I was the attendant for an alien carpark on Mars. I suppose it must have been in the future because I’d grown a beard. Vehicles from Alpha Centauri I directed to the green zone to my right, those from Dog Star system to the purple zone on my left. Earth vehicles were being marshalled by my friend Les Floyd in the Olympus car park just over the horizon. Ho hum. Flashes from the dream recurred during the day.  I wonder what was in that trifle I ate yesterday?

I interrupt my blog today to report on my latest FrontList review. It is bad. The reviewer probably received socks for his main Christmas present, or wish he’d written my Hot Air  himself and took his ire out in his review. 30 / 50 so it could be worse but blows any chance of Hot Air being waved under the FrontList agent or publisher’s noses.

To show how varied and fickle the review process is at FrontList – my grades for Appeal for Hot Air have gone from the highest 10/10 by two reviewers who thought it had “extremely high appeal” and should “attract a wide range of readers”, to 4/10 from the latest whinger who says “appeal only to very young and impressionable schoolgirls.”

I think it comes down mainly to style. People either love it or hate it. My ‘voice’ as they say, was generated while a schoolboy writing essays and suffered the same dichotomy of reactions then.  To be honest, Hot Air was written quickly as adventurous fun. If I intended it to be a literary novel then I would not have written it as a thriller with ironic humour. But not all reviewers are able to make distinctions. To rub salt in he says I have imagination but I am not a writer. Luckily, it’s like failing an examination – I climb back on and show them they’re wrong.

This is the season of mists and silence where hearing from agents and publishers are concerned. I’ve heard nothing for a month or more from my emissives hurtled at first class post rates (always the optimist they’d land on an empty desk). They are entitled to take time over their Christmas puds I suppose. Then maybe they’ll be in spiffing mood when they read my masterpieces! Yeay!

I’ve written every day this holiday – not in here, but on my Exit, pursued by a Bee sci fi novel. I nearly managed all day Christmas Day with writing nowt but mid-evening I staggered from the kitchen and dropped a loaded whisky-marmalade spoon (it’s best you don’t ask what and why). A moment’s self diagnosis thrust me to realise I was suffering writing withdrawal symptoms. Sure enough, an hour and 200 words later, I stopped dropping spoons.

It happened again today. There I was, puffing up Hope Mountain Road in Wales, my bare and thus freezing knees wondering why their owner hadn’t put longer cycling trousers on today, when an idea popped into my head. The idea resolved a problem I had with a plot for a Literary novel I discussed with Canadian playwright friend, Donna Gagnon yesterday. I’m not going to tell all at this stage, but it fascinates me where ideas come from. I’ve asked other writers this too, and they usually say they just come to them. Sometimes, an overheard snatch of conversation triggers storylines. I know that works. I had a phone conversation with the Historical Romance writer, Ruth Hamilton, last year. Being a bit deaf I thought she said the phrase ‘… a ghost before he died…’ During that week I was trying to create five horror / ghost stories for HorrorMasters.com and the notion of someone being a ghost before they’d terminated life appealed to me so much I missed the rest of the sentence. Later, Ruth (real name, Linda, which is an amazing coincidence because I have a sister whose name is Linda Ruth!) said how pleased she was that she’d inspired a story I was able to sell but she’d never uttered those words – they were corrupted by my cochlea. Hah!

I think I have so many story ideas cycling or walking up hills because extra oxygenated blood surges into the imagination cell I carry about in my brain. Alternatively, there might be some creative sheep up here who telepath ideas to a fellow vegetarian!

Yesterday’s blog attracted a few criticisms from pilots who would like to point out that airplanes continued to take off and land at Heathrow in the fog (I didn’t actually say they weren’t, but I admit it could have been implied), and that the main reason why flights were cancelled is the extra time needed on the ground for visual checks by pilots to taxi safely. So I return to my point that humans aren’t really necessary, and that remains true for taxiing as well as take off, flying and landing, but it would cost a lot of extra airfare dollars and pounds to put the technology into practise. And the same is with having infrared head-up displays or screens, in cockpits that can see through fog. Others have pointed out that radar and radio signals are interfered with on the ground with so much metal clutter such as slow airplanes. I suppose it is similar to snow clearing on our roads in the UK. Everythings skids to a halt when the flakes descend because we are not prepared to devote huge tax money to storing and maintaing snow clearing equipment for only a few days use per year. Thanks to Simon Hobson, son of the great Gladys at Beyond Hill writers’ group for the putting-me-right information! And to the wish-to-be anon Boeing pilot in Seattle!

I’ve just returned from a wonderful meeting with fellow BeWrite.net writer, Donna and her feller, Doug, in Shrewsbury. The hours whizzed by as we chatted about colleagues, work, stories we’ve written, half-written, and going-to-write! My wife came too. I think she suspects the people I meet in the virtual Internet world are not real. Well Donna and Doug are the third and fourth computer people she now knows are flesh and blood. We had a great time in the wonderful antique Shrewsbury – thanks Donna and Doug.

It doesn’t make sense on several levels. One million air passengers have had their flights cancelled or disrupted because of fog. Fog is a dense arrangment of water droplets in suspension forming a cloud on the ground. Most of it, this time of year, is radiation fog, which is not radioactive, but caused by overnight radiative loss of heat from the ground plunging temperatures below the dew point so that water vapour then has to condense. But it is relatively opaque only because of our insistence on using human eyes to peer at it. There are several technological alternatives or supplements that can see through fog: using radar, infrared and other wavelengths. Indeed, using radio transmitting navigation beacons in addition to accurate GPS and computers, modern airplanes don’t need human pilots at all. There is no techie reason why those planes are not landing and taking off in fog. But most people feel safer if the technology is watched over by a human, who can grasp the joystick and switch to manual if something goes wrong. The fact that the human is more likely to go wrong than the new technology is ignored. Maybe after a few more days, the passengers sitting on the floor at Heathrow might have a change of heart. In the meantime why is no newspaper mentioning this aspect?

Talking of writing, I have a meet up tomorrow in Shrewsbury with dramatist and fellow BeWrite moderator, Donna Gagnon, and her feller, Doug. My wife is coming too, but not being a writer will probably say her hellos, realise my friends are mostly harmless and go off shopping.

No more news from FrontList. So I am stuck with only 3 reviews out of 5 for my Hot Air thriller. Could be that the fog or Christmas interruptus has slowed the reviewers.

Have a great Christmas, readers!

My run up to Christmas has had a couple of hiccups, and not of the alcoholic induced types. Yesterday the fog lifted enough to encourage my bike to be led out of the garage. Great – now I can go for a haircut in Mold, 17 miles of hilly Welsh country lanes; perfect exercise and just what I need. A mile later I was trudging back with my back wheel flopping with a flat tyre. By the time I repaired it, used the opportunity of my rear wheel being removed to thoroughly clean the cogs & gear mechanisms, the short day had too little time left for 35 miles round trip.

Then a recurring toothache struck again. Fearing the next available appointment would be in 2007, the dentist surprised me by opening 30 mins earlier. After an x-ray and discussion of options with this far to the right molar (I’ve never been keen on anything that far right…) he gave me a couple of jabs and yanked it out. I’m sure I’ll feel better by tomorrow!

OK, who ordered this dense fog? Own up! Last night I’d decided to make as much use of the high pressure with its calm winds and DRY conditions to go for a longer bike ride than normal so close to the winter solstice (it will be 21st Dec this year) and dive into my cycling clothes and leap on my Dawes Super Galaxy at dawn. Grrrrr – the fog is now forecast to remain until mid-morning at least. So maybe I can tyrelever in a short ride to Mold for a haircut, after lunch.

I had a good day writing yesterday and managed 1000 words on Exit, pursued by a bee. I’ll revise them today and probably slash the antiwords. I was able to write more because as I followed my planned plot, one of the characters smirked and subplotted an evil plan I hadn’t. Novels are like that – at least the ones I write – where strong characters take on a life of their own, often quite logically, but unexpectedly. Of course they have to keenly watched in case they upset the balance and writing plan as a whole. But if it works then go for it. I can’t wait to see what she does today!

FrontList alerted me to another review of my thriller novel, Hot Air. I score another 45 / 50 from an astute critique who gladly saw the racy feisty woman protagonist as a character to enthrall. The reviewer also salivated at the quick paced dialogue and action. Wow, if only the first reviewer was as perceptive, I’d still be in a chance of having Hot Air seen by their agent! It depends muchly on the last two reviewers. If they, too, are 10 or more points above that desultory first one, I’ll ask for a review of the review – hah!

The white ice crackled under my black cycle tyres this morning as I set off. Shorts? Oh yes, there’s nothing like having raw red knees to start off with, which then warm with being rapidly bent. Cold but gloriously sunny for most of my usual Sunday morning journey into Wales and up to Pen-y-fford for a newspaper, and then return. On the way there I was distracted by one of the most vivid rainbows I’ve seen for ages. This is has been a rainbow month so far – all those rain showers and sunlight. The sun has to be behind you and striking an angle of 43 degrees as it hits the raindrops (impossible to have a rainbow with no rain – even if it is not wetting you) and refracts back to your eye. I saw the primary bow and its Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain colours, the secondary bow a few degrees outside of it with reversed colours, and pale but distinct supernumerary bows, of weird pinks and turquoise, inside the primary.  It seemed really close too. I could see the primary bow sink into a stubble field in front of a farm building. But of course as I reached for that pot of gold…

I cycled up the long hill from Higher Kinnerton to Hope, twice. Near the bottom the first time, I noticed what looked like a discarded black handbag in the wet grass verge. As I cycled past it I thought maybe a thief had snatched it, robbed any valuables and discarded it there. In which case there was nothing of value I could return to its owner if some ID remained. On the other hand, it could have been accidentally dropped last night, on the way home from the pub, by a now desperate woman who’s lost her purse, keys, cheque book, credit cards, photos of loved ones, antique brooch – a heirloom given to her by her dear white-haired old great gran on her deathbed uttering ‘don’t ever let this brooch leave you, Agnes dear.’ Of course by the time the compulsion to pick up the bag and check its contents, I’d reached the top of the hill. Oh well, it’s all good exercise! So I returned – the easy downhill whizzing along – and picked up the black patent leather bag. It was a Vauxhall motorcar wallet containing the service manual and other automobile documents of no worth. So it probably was a thief who discarded it after all; having stolen the car and rummaging through the glove compartment. I placed it in the next rubbish bin.

I seem to have lost a couple of pounds from yesterday morning. That can’t be right, so it’s probably just water loss from this morning’s bike ride even though I drank a pint of water enroute. I wonder if the bicycle pump, used in reverse, is any good at liposuction..

My doctor reported to me that the 24 hour bloodpressure monitor reveals I am marginally hypertensive. Even at night my bp was mostly over 135/85. I told him that this was probably because I lay awake waiting for the arm strangling. And when I slept through it my wife would wake me up thinking the morning alarm had jangled to leap us into breakfast mode. He also weighed me – 13 stone 13 pounds!! (195 in American money) but I was wearing my cycling overtrousers over my normal day trousers ( avec heavy wallet – hah), cycling shoes, and my hair still wet from the rain. At home this morning, I was 13 stone exactly – but I think our scales are Nelder-friendly in their bias. There’s no medication on offer for at least three months when the doctor wants me to throw all my effort into losing at least a stone. Will do – all I need to is to have the will-power to stop snacking in the evenings. But I will. I’m kicking off with only eating raw food next week – I’ve done it before for kick-starting a diet. It is quite easy for a vegan like me to get more than enough nutrients from nuts, seeds, raw salad & veg and fruit with the addition of vegan supplements for vitamin B12 and kelp for iodine & other traces. I’ll report my weight loss or gain on these pages.

I thought I had a great idea for a short thriller story yesterday. I was reading my blood donor’s magazine, which comes from the NHS vampires to us bloodletters to inspire us not to miss a session. Suppose I gave blood in the morning. Multiple pile up on a nearby motorway forces the local hospital to grab all the blood it can including mine. So my fairly fresh blood is tranfused into a guy as a caution because he had a laceration, but not too serious, so he leaves hospital. Later that day he commits a murder and in the fight his blood is left at the scene. Some of it is my donated blood along with my DNA! So I get a knock on the door in the next few days and arrested for murder. Hah!  Sadly or gladly, I suppose, the DNA in blood is the white blood cells, which are removed in the blood processing for transfusions. Even if whole blood is used (very rarely indeed) the recipient’s body will reject the donor’s white blood cells and the DNA disintegrates. Damn, another fine idea is dashed… unless I find a way round it …