Happy New Year.

I don’t tend to write much over Christmas; I always find it a time for generating new ideas or doing the writing-tasks-that-aren’t-writing, like submissions or editing or planning. And looking back at old stuff to see if it can be resurrected (a fun task, but the answer is always “no”).

Consequently, the Robin Hood novel has been submitted to an agency, a (new) short story entered for a competition. Most likely nothing will come of either, but at least it feels like I’m doing something.

I’m also going to set myself a number of targets every month in 2018. This can include a number of pages to write in the novel, define what needs done to the gamebook, or lining up correspondence etc. to support further (fruitless) submissions of Robin Hood.

I’ve also reached a natural break in the fantasy novel. I think it’s about 2/3 finished, so I’m re-reading what I’ve written so far with an eye to consistency and rhythm: what scenes work well in which order, which scenes are superfluous and which new scenes need written. Watching a load of French New Wave films recently has been fascinating for many reasons, not least in the way they draw attention to the film editor’s art.

As for fixing inconsistencies and replacing placeholder names, I’ll not worry about them until later unless they’re so obvious they impede comprehension. Fixes at the level of the sentence – or the individual word – can wait until much (much) later.

It looks like this novel will consist of 5 parts (hey, it worked for Shakespeare*), and I’ve written to the end of Part 3. Now I face a decision. Part 2 is stylistically very different from the rest of the novel. Do I write Part 4 in the same way? Would repeating the use of the effect I employed there weaken the impact of Part 2, or would it do the opposite and help to create a symmetry to the book’s overall form? I’m leaning towards the latter.



*Yes, I know the division of Renaissance plays into a 5-act structure is a later editorial convention.


Peter Lanyon: Liminality & Psychogeography

The art of Peter Lanyon – who died 53 years ago today – is, like all great art, uncompromising. For those seeking “Cornish Art”, it has none of the serenity of the calm seascapes on offer in every gallery in every tiny cove. But if you’re prepared to look beyond the initially daunting surface of Lanyon’s vast canvasses, there is much on show that should strike a chord with many who come to experience (and I use the word advisedly) the liminal zone – where sea meets land meets sky – of Cornwall. There’s nothing wrong with the calming blue landscapes on show elsewhere: there are worse things than a memento of a Cornish summer in the grip of a bleak, grey Scottish winter. But Lanyon’s work is a distillation of Cornwall: its long past, and the ever-present moment of vivid experience.


You need only stand on any headland – Lizard, Cape Cornwall, Trevose Head – to recognise in the 270° sea, and 180° sky, what works such as Silent Coast, High Ground, High Wind, and my favourite, Thermal, exemplify: the experience of being in a place where edges meet and clash.

Lanyon, in his travels across Cornwall, wanted to come “on a place unawares”, and capture the first sight of it before it settled into familiarity. In the days before he took up gliding, he would do this by running up to a sudden view, or turning over to see it upside-down; by hanging onto a cliff-face, or by diving. “A formal conception of landscape”, he said, “is a horizon set low, dividing the canvas in top and bottom” which “presupposes a fixed viewpoint”.

His greatest works are his gliding paintings of 1959-1962*, and though they may depict a view of Cornwall few of us are lucky enough to share, they are more conventionally beautiful and accessible to the casual viewer than much of his earlier work. At least, the names (Thermal, again) quite clearly match what the canvas shows: airy blues and whites rising and spilling and colliding. His own intrusion to this barren kingdom is symbolised by the streak of red seen in Solo Flight and Soaring Flight.

For walkers on the South-West Coastal Path, for surfers at Fistral or Praa Sands and for sea-kayakers off the Lizard, though their pursuits differ there is a shared goal of the sheer in-the-moment experience. Lanyon’s work re-presents this. In simple terms, from the mid-1950s, he didn’t seek to paint a place, but the sense(s) of being in that place. Compare two paintings of Portreath. The first, Portreath (below), from 1949 is an abstracted but still-recognisable portrayal of the fishing village near Camborne. The latter, Offshore (1959) only shows symbolic elements of green and blue, but the energy imbued in the work suggests the winds off the coast, and an approaching storm. If the sky is vertical in a Lanyon, it’s probably because he was lying down at the time, catching the view unawares. Offshore shows what it felt like to be there, not what it looked like.

Peter Lanyon: Portreath (1947)
Peter Lanyon: Portreath (1949)


On his return to St Ives after the Second World War, he had sought a reconnection with the countryside of his youth, and this process informed his work throughout his life, even when working abroad (in Czechoslovakia, for instance; the USA; or Devon). This led first to an appreciation of the history of a place (and the role of human labour in that history), then to portraying the sensation of being in a place at a particular moment, and then, as he sought ever-new ways of experiencing the world around him, into the air (and, ultimately, to his death after a gliding accident).

From the late 40s to the late 50s his work is dark, earthy and rooted in particular places. His palette is redolent of the greens and browns and blacks of the Penwith peninsula’s farms, fields and walls. He wanted to bring out the smell of dung in a farmyard in the work Bojewyan Farms. This is one of a series of agricultural paintings done in the early 50s after a walk from Pendeen to St. Just, through the near-barren farmlands which still cling to the cliff-edges of Penwith on the most western face of England. The map he later drew of the walk shows the route and the paintings it inspired:


As if working out an atavistic guilt over his family’s wealth from the local mining industry, his work at this time is filled with references to human labour: thick black mineshafts, and what Cambridge art historian James Fox described as one of the most significant pieces of British art in the 20th Century, St. Just (1953). This not only commemorates the men killed in a mining accident at the Levant mine near St. Just in 1919, but stands now as an elegy for an entire lost industry.

By ironic coincidence, this walk (which we would now think of as an exercise in psychogeography) traces the route of the B3306, today widely considered as one of the most “picturesque” roads in the UK. But for Lanyon, the act of walking, of touching the Cornish hedges, of feeling the road and fields underfoot, was the crucial thing linking him to the landscape.

In late 2000, Tate St. Ives mounted an exhibition (Peter Lanyon: Coastal Journey) commemorating that walk. For the first time, it grouped together in one space the paintings Lanyon refers to in his map, each of which portrayed a stage of the journey and the associations of that particular spot. In the accompanying catalogue, Andrew Dalton writes that Lanyon

“thought of these works as representing more than a mere tour of the region. He wished to express a complex, multi-layered experience of these places which addressed his sense of the industrial, agricultural, spiritual and mystical aspect of Penwith…to evoke the deeper meanings locked within the landscape.”

Lanyon is buried in the churchyard of St. Uny in Lelant, in a corner sheltered by a small sycamore, beneath a gravestone of granite and slate, those two emblematic Cornish bedrocks. It may seem an incongruous resting place for a man whose greatest works depict the experience of taking wing and soaring above the clashing territories of wave and shoreline, but he was – fanatically – a Cornishman, and this was his territory. Engraved on the slate of his tomb are lines from one of his own poems.

I will ride now

The barren kingdoms

In my history

And in my eye



*This is not to discredit the work that follows from them in the final two years of his life. Though his purpose – to capture the sense of being in a place – changed little in his final years, the style and method did. Alert to changing tastes, and the rise of Pop Art in particular, his response to the new forms of art sees a lightening of touch, an introduction into his “serious” art of the humour he was well-known for. If he lacks the irony of Pop Art, he shares a kindred playfulness, and the bold – but lightly applied – colours of works like Saltillo or Mexico, which almost look like they’ve been done in acrylic rather than oil, reflect this.



Dalton, Andrew: Peter Lanyon: Coastal Journey (Tate, 2000)

Fox, James: The Art of Cornwall (BBC, 2010)

Stephens, Chris: Peter Lanyon:  At the Edge of Landscape (21 Publishing, 2000)

Garlake, Margaret: Peter Lanyon (St. Ives Artists) (Tate, 2002)



Cornwall: two landscapes

Driving west on the A30, it’s impossible to miss the post-industrial landscapes of clay- and tin-mining country. Whatever your feelings toward them, they are impressive, and very different from each other.

Clay mining – the Cornish Alps – sprawl over the area north and west of St. Austell (and give the Eden Project it’s home). Tin mining – a larger part of the Cornish economy for a far longer time, dating back millenia rather than centuries – is spread across a much wider area. Standing on Carn Brea, the low hill that looms over Camborne, Pool and Redruth, you can see from right to left, pretty much all the tin areas before you: St. Agnes, Camborne-Redruth, Godolphin, St. Ives, Wendron. Only that of St. Just is hidden by the low spine of West Penwith.

One ancient industry and one more recent, in one of the few areas of Britain where mining heritage is still highly visible. In Fife, Lothian, Yorkshire, South Wales and Nottinghamshire the winding gears have (mostly) long been dismantled and recycled. Although mining museums (such as those in Newtongrange and Wakefield) keep alive the history, regardless of your views on either the environmental impact of fossil fuel use or the assault on the trade union movement by the Thatcher government (of which coalminers bore the brunt), that there are so few signs remaining of this once mighty industry is dispiriting1. You can destroy the buildings far quicker than you can repair the fractured communities.

Cornwall has – for far longer than the coalmining regions – had to pick up the pieces after industry’s demise, and it still has one of the lowest standards of living in Britain. The county has been hugely subsidised by the E.U., just one more thing which makes the Leave vote incomprehensible.


The tin industry was not – unlike coal – destroyed by a vindictive government, but by the vagaries of an early global market. Falling prices killed the mines slowly, wheal by wheal2. Ironically, the cheaper tin which flooded the market was often sourced from countries whose own industries were founded by Cornish migrants fleeing successive waves of unemployment (the Heartlands “cultural playground” in Camborne/Pool commemorates this in its “diaspora garden”).

In the 17th and 18th centuries, these fluctuating tin prices led to miners starving. There were riots in Truro and Redruth; tinners would break into merchants’ houses looking for grain. In an early, but sadly recognisable form of working-class demonisation, they were scapegoats for all ills, and “held responsible for any disturbance, any breach of the peace.”

Several of the “iconic” engine houses have been preserved or refurbished: Levant, Geevor, East Pool, King Edward and Robinson’s Shaft (at Heartlands), and today’s (service sector) employees do not, hopefully, risk their lives on a daily basis (their pristine condition is misleading however: no tin mine would be that clean when operational, but heritage tourism doesn’t “do” dirt and grime).

The winding gear of South Crofty, across the road from Heartlands, stands proud, visible for miles. It remains mothballed since its closure in 1997 spelled the end of 3,000 years of tin mining in Cornwall. Successive attempts to re-open it have foundered, and its future remains uncertain3.

Previous attempts to reboot the tin industry have failed, having come up against the leviathan that is now Cornwall’s main employer: tourism. In 1961 a Public Enquiry was held into the prospect of a new mine near Zennor. Objections had been raised that it would spoil the landscape, and affect the fine coastal views. The only witness to speak in it’s defence was the artist Peter Lanyon. Lanyon was the only major “St. Ives artist” who was a native of the area, and he was deeply engaged with the history and geography of west Cornwall. He knew that the mine meant local employment. In defence of the proposal, he said:

“opponents talk of beauty and the magnificence of scenery as if nature were incapable of wrath that would touch them…what view do they think the Cornishman has, who desires above all to make his own riches, but is barred by some concept of beauty that denies him the honour of his labour?”

Lanyon was that rare thing: a landscape painter acutely aware of man’s impact on his environment. Prefiguring China Mieville’s concept of the pictureskew, his near-abstract paintings of Cornwall’s land, sea and sky do not efface the presence of employment and the exploitation of that employment. His monumental St. Just (1951) with its central crucifix, commemorates lives lost in the tin mines in general, but specifically the Levant disaster of 1919, an event only now receding from living memory. Lost Mine (1959) and Wheal Owles (1958) are other examples of his engagement with the industrial history of the region – a history he may, as a descendant of mine-owning family, have felt some unease toward.

Are the west Cornish tinscapes only impressive because of their stillness? Would we find them so romantic if they were not ruined, if they still made the rivers run red4 with their contamination? I doubt it. Daphne du Maurier writes, in her book Vanishing Cornwall:

“perhaps they seemed ugly once, bare as electric pylons do today, smoke from tall chimneys fouling the air, and instead of present silence the chug of machinery”

Is it the absence of people, the loneliness these places evoke (a relative concept in buildings that abut a dual carriageway or a modern industrial estate), their emptiness that elevates a scene to the realm of the sublime? Perhaps. The late Mark Fisher, in his wonderful The Weird and the Eerie, defines the “eerie” as something (i.e. a landscape) containing “absence where there should be presence”, and I’d suggest the ruined engine houses can evoke a sublime eeriness.

But we must be honest about what it is we enjoy in a landscape, and there is something unsettling in the enjoyment taken from a landscape which, from a human-economical point of view, has been hollowed out; there is something not entirely right about preferring a vista with only the remains of industry, to that of one with living industry providing living people with an income right now. But perhaps an acknowledgement of this dissonance is enough; not every circle can be squared.

Nonetheless, there is much that is unsettling in our enjoyment of a landscape. The granite hump of Carn Brea is topped (below) by a obelisk which commemorates Francis Basset, foremost of the mine- and land-owning Bassets of Tehidy. Although he is recorded as being concerned for miners’ welfare, and though 20,000 people took part in the procession of his funeral, this is still a man who, as Bernard Deacon writes in his Cornwall and the Cornish, as an M.P. hurried back to Cornwall to ensure hungry food rioters “were properly hanged and not, as was usual, let off with transportation”.


Is this the type of person we are comfortable memorialising? And if not, then this should lead us to the next question: “who decides who is commemorated?” And if the answer to that is “the authority in possession of the land”, then the logical follow-up question then becomes: “who owns the land?” And, ultimately: “why?”


The “Cornish Alps” are a much more modern manifestation than the engine houses. Clay mining began in Cornwall in 1746. The piles resemble the coal bings of elsewhere (Broxburn, West Lothian springs to mind), but dwarf them, and the white colour lends the panorama an element of weirdness.

Daphne du Maurier, who lived not far away, was smitten by them, writing of their

“strange, almost fantastic beauty…[with the same] grandeur as tin mining in decay but in a wilder and more magical sense…there is nothing ugly here.”

Clay mining and clay country was perhaps viewed by others as less romantic than its elder cousin. It was “relatively new and did not enjoy all the ancient historical associations of metal mining”. Many of the great white peaks, if the Ordnance Survey maps are authoritative, have no official name. Local names may exist, but DANGER signs and restricted access do not help lodge a place’s nuances in the public imagination. That said, authoritative or not, the OS Explorer map for the area in question is striking:


Doesn’t that just make you want to explore? Look at all the white! There are tracks that go nowhere! There are ancient barrows jutting right up against these huge tips! I love Ordnance Survey maps – never forgetting that they are an arm of government, with their own agenda5 – but the fact there’s stuff even they can’t fully map, here in the U.K., is awesome.

Whereas, conventionally, blue is used to denote bodies of water which in reality change colour with the light, the pools nestling in the crowns of the clay tips are actually done a disservice by the OS colouring. As anyone flying into Newquay airport can testify, they are a dazzling aquamarine, more blue than blue.

I haven’t walked among the clay tips as I have the tin country, so this piece is written from a certain distance. But I am happy to defer again to du Maurier:

“[one’s] sense of orientation goes awry, as it does on Bodmin Moor, and although roads intersect the vast expanses, and sign-posts give direction, some strange instinct compels the unwary motorist or walker to travel in a circle, the waste-heaps and pitted pools becoming all alike, and there seems no way out, no means of escaping from this fantastic world.”

She also addresses the question of this more modern industry’s place in the public (folk) imagination.

“An industry rapidly becoming mechanised…is, alas, unlikely to produce myth or legend. No knackers beckon from the pyramids, no water-sprite lurks in the deep pools. Or, if they do, the layman has not yet heard tell of them. Isolation, the breeding ground of fear and mythology, is no more”. (my italics).

Should that prevent new myths? post-industrial folklore? Walks need to be taken, journeys made, from which a common language may spring. These mounds exist; they are not going away6; infertile as they are, it takes growth such a long time to take a foothold that they are not changing their appearance any time soon; and their fascination is plain. How do we act upon them and integrate what they tell us? How do we reconcile them with the ancient features they exist among? Are these not cousins to other post-industrial regions where ruin, toxicity and the expense needed to overcome these obstacles prevent “development”? How do we speak of such landscapes?


1Perhaps coalmining lacks the “romance” of tin mining. Perhaps not enough time has passed; perhaps “romance” only develops when the scars have healed and the struggles have passed from living memory, if we define “romance” in this context as an idealisation of the past.

But are pitheads any less worthy of preservation than the statues of long-forgotten men that litter our cities? To argue otherwise betrays a (typically British) reactionary attitude toward modernist, functional architecture. Cockenzie power station was demolished in 2015; an eyesore to some, but if an eyesore is needed to remind the people of Edinburgh where their electricity has come from for the last fifty years, then so be it. And it was less of an eyesore than the ruin caused by floods or storms that hit (far away, poor) countries as a result of the global warming caused by our burning of fossil fuels.

2wheal: Cornish for “place of work”

3There is no lack of tin under the ground but also, crucially, the minerals that mobile phone batteries need to operate. Surely it’s in our interests to source these minerals without the exploitation that goes on elsewhere in the world in their pursuit?

4The Red River flows into the sea near Godrevy, passing through Tuckingmill. The colour even today is still an opaque brick red. The River Vinnick, passing through clay country, was known historically as the White River for the same reasons: pollution by mining waste.

5The decision to render the clay tips as (mostly) blank white space, although aesthetically pleasing, is questionable. They are not featureless, nor without subtle gradient. Do we lack the mapping language to adequately represent post-industrial landscapes? Are these mounds, because removed from the public arena and therefore unavailable for “utility”,  not worth the detail expended elsewhere?

6Few landscapes in Britain are unspoiled. The Highlands only appear bare and sheep-spotted because the human inhabitants were burned out of their homes and sent overseas to make room for more profitable sheep.


Ordnance Survey Explorer 106: Newquay and Padstow (2014)

du Maurier, Daphne: Vanishing Cornwall (Penguin, 1972)

Deacon, Bernard: Cornwall and the Cornish (Alison Hodge, 2010)

Chapman, Sarah & Chapman, David: Iconic Cornwall (Alison Hodge, 2010)

Stephens, Chris: Peter Lanyon – At the Edge of Landscape (21 Publishing, 2000)

map image copyright Ordnance Survey

21st century pseudonyms, or “furthermore known as the JAMMs”

On 23rd August, Faber will publish “2023: A Trilogy” by the Justified Ancients of Mu Mu. Written by (I am assuming) Bill Drummond and Jimmy Cauty, whose best-known guise is The KLF, the publication date will mark exactly 23 years to the day since the pair set fire to a million pounds in a disused boathouse on Jura. Shortly afterward, they wrote a contract promising not to speak about the event for a period of 23 years, put the contract in a car and pushed it off Cape Wrath, Britain’s most northerly point.

Drummond and Cauty always had a keen sense of ritual, and so the book, we must presume, is the last revelation, the final act of that particular part of their long (for want of a better) “career”, which has been superbly written about in “The KLF: Chaos, Magic and the Band who Burned a Million Pounds” by John Higgs.

Do I expect the book (“a utopian costume drama, set in the near future, written in the recent past”) to reveal their secrets and reasons? No, of course not.

Do I expect it to reveal the meaning of life? No. And in any case, it’s “23”.

Will it be rubbish? Quite possibly. But I hope not.

Will I buy it anyway? Of course.

But that’s not the point of this post.

What I find interesting is the name they’re using. The Justified Ancients of Mu Mu were Drummond and Cauty’s original late 80s sample-heavy outfit, charting with the thundering 1990 hit “It’s Grim Up North“. But again, that’s not the point. “”2023: A Trilogy” by Bill Drummond and Jimmy Cauty” would have been one thing, but to have the author’s name be that of a band is, for me, the masterstroke.

I suppose this entire post could just be a single question: “why don’t writers use band-type names as pseudonyms”? Because that is my point.

Off the top of my head – although I’m sure there must be some others – I can only think of one book that has been similarly attributed*, and that’s The Manual: How to Have a Number One The Easy Way by The Timelords, the band behind the genius/godawful novelty smash hit “Doctorin’ the Tardis”. The Timelords were – but of course – Bill Drummond and Jimmy Cauty.

Let’s ignore for now the fact that all band names are, to an extent, absurd. What is it that’s so different between the music-buying public and the book-buying public that one finds abstract pseudonyms not only normal but desirable, while the other expects it’s authors to have real – or at least realistic – names? It isn’t as if these two publics are different people, after all.

I’m not asking why don’t bands write books, but rather why don’t more authors publish under an abstract or collective name?

It’s convention, isn’t it? Authors have always used pseudonyms, but collective names for artistic purposes (again, please correct me if I’m wrong) I am guessing began early last century with various modernist movements such as the Dadaists, Futurists and Surrealists, who self-consciously used such descriptors. Should we take it as a sign of one of Modernism’s failings that this didn’t cross into literature (other than for the purpose of those groups’ manifestos)?

“The death of the author” was announced by Roland Barthes 50 years ago, we accept such innovations as e-books, the Romantics’ idea of art as self-expression has been called into question for a long time, yet still we cleave to the idea of authenticity that a “real” name above a title evidently confers. No matter what experimentation or deconstruction of the form goes on within the text, still the book-as-object appears earnestly signed off by an identifiable figure. I’d love to see someone else follow Drummond and Cauty’s lead.


*Q by Luther Blissett doesn’t quite fit the bill here, being written by a collective yet appearing as “by” a single figure, though is interesting nonetheless; Luther Blissett in this case being not the former Watford and England footballer, but an Italian group for whom he was a cult hero.

Construction Time

Someone – Google could tell me who – said “you never learn how to write a novel, just the one you’re writing now”.

I’ve tried a few ways. My first (adult) attempt at a novel can be discounted, as it was a make-it-up-as-you-go-along story of magical realism set among the homeless of Dundee. I really hope no copy of it still exists, but I fear my Mum has one somewhere.

My second try skirted the issue of writing an entire novel by comprising a book of interlinked short stories. This was much easier to deal with than a single overarching narrative. Several of the stories were taken up by magazines, and the collection was shortlisted for a national prize, which should have given me the confidence to try another “real” novel. But it didn’t, and I (almost) wrote only short stories for the next ten years.

But even short stories have to be constructed. I don’t mean the form of the narrative or the warp and weave of the strands of story. I mean the actual construction: not what the architect draws, but how the builders build.

The rarest of things, for any writer, is the work that seems to come from nowhere, is written in one go, and whose final draft is, but for some finessing and planing of rough edges, almost indistinguishable from the first. Like a band whose demos are good enough to release as a final product, this doesn’t happen often. But it does happen. It makes you suspicious: easy writing makes hard reading, and vice-versa, but sometimes the words come just as they should.

Sometimes, other techniques are called for. You can splice: the “A Day in the Life” technique. I wrote a story – long lost – featuring a man who grew a tail, and for some reason this necessitated grafting part of another story onto it. The result was a malformed beast, indeed. What worked for George Martin & The Beatles did so for a reason.

You can leave it in a drawer to mature. I began a story on a train to Lille in 2006 and abandoned it, knowing it had promise but that now wasn’t the time. Only the chance memory (while out for a bike ride in Midlothian) of the logos on the wall of an office in Dundee, last-seen a decade before, gave me the key to finish the rest of the story a year or so later. The final product, Little Angels, was published by New Writing Dundee.

There is, more brutally, the delete key. I began a story in 2003 about a teacher and her delicate relationship with an introverted beekeeper. After 10,000 words I realised it was going nowhere, and stripped it back to the extent that the teacher no longer existed. Thus pruned, I abandoned it entirely, and instead wrote a synopsis of it from the point of view of one of the minor characters. Recognising that this was a story in itself, it was submitted to and published by New Writing Scotland (2005). I took another look at the remainder of the longer work, re-focussed it, and turned it into a different version of the same story. This was published by Bingo! Two short stories from one flailing novella.

The next novel I wrote – as-yet-unpublished – was a re-telling of the Robin Hood legend. Lacking the practice of writing a full-length work, I took some of the individual tales associated with Robin Hood and turned them into sequential events, stringing them together into a tale of rebirth and death, of the changing seasons and austerity politics. Anyone wanting to publish it can get in touch.

The book I’ve just finished writing is a choose-your-own-adventure type story, set in the milieu of professional cycling. The numbered paragraphs formed bite-sized chapters which were easy to write, with the action taking place on roads in Belgium on which I’ve both ridden and seen countless times on televised bike races. In hindsight some more careful mapping was needed to plan the structure of the various branches, but it was fun, which isn’t always the case.

The other novel I’m working on has taken a back seat while I finished the gamebook, but it’s almost time to dust it off again. This one started from a few images and concepts, and has only ever been planned a few scenes ahead. This is mostly because my writing time is limited, so I need to ensure I know exactly what’s going onto the piece of paper when I sit down. The advantage of this is that I never face writer’s block (famous last words); the disadvantage is that writing only a page or so at a time means it has taken two and a half years to get to two hundred pages, and scenes I envisaged on the day I started writing can take months until I get to the point of writing them. I agree with Clive Barker, who writes his books in order, and doesn’t skip ahead to the good bits. It may make for digressions and call for later editing, but I think it gives the story a more natural flow.

When I finally finish this one (this year?) then I can worry about how to write the next.