splashes

Autumn's started a bit early, it feels like, in Manchester. I was there when it switched over - going into town yesterday on the train to see Paul Burston give his reading at Taurus bar. It was a beautiful, blue, augusty day when I set off and the heavens opened when I got to Canal Street. But I don't mind the rain in Manchester. Makes it seem even more like Venice than it already does, racketing up and down Canal Street. Before the reading I went off to do some writing in Via Fossa, one of my favourite bars. Having Guinness in the stormy afternoon, under chandeliers in a gallery made of old church fittings. Writing a good argument scene between Brenda and Effie.

My head's been full of the new book for days. And a bit of painting, which I enjoy when I allow myself to spend some time at it. Great to do something that doesn't involve words at all.

I've been thinking more about this business of reviews and what I think of them, and who does them and why they do them, etc. I've realised that I *do* really value reviews. I love it when people take the time and care to write to me or about me. And that's the point, I think. I appreciate it when time and care and attention have been taken. When someone has really worked and absorbed the novel, or whatever it is. They've thought about it and thought about the process, the context and everything.

The thing I don't like is the cursory and the dismissive. I hope I'm writing stuff that holds back some of its secrets and can't be grasped on a first reading or listening. I'm hoping that what I write will linger and intrigue and break new ground.

So... I'm always a bit exasperated when reviewers - amateur or professional - seem to go at their subject half-cocked. Having skimmed the thing in a superior-feeling kind of a way. Having made up their minds before getting even halfway through a first read, if that. So that's part of what I was saying about reviews and people who go online on fora to slag something off for ghoulish fun.