© Simona Balint

A week ago my sister, her hub, my hub and I all piled into a car to drive down to Devon. My sister’s almost six months pregnant and busily blooming, swelling, and making necklaces (no, I’m not sure how that last bit ties into it all either).

To prevent me constantly asking whether we were nearly there yet, she passed me the biggest book of baby names I’ve ever seen. According to the blurb on the cover, it contained 20,000 suggestions, grouped handily into sections according to gender, culture and, most intriguingly, mood.

It was the most fantastic way to pass the time. According to this trusty tome, my name means “Worthy of Worshipping”, while my sister’s meant “Honest”, my bro-in-law’s meant “Gift of God” and my husband’s meant “Reliable.’

Obviously the perfect relationship is built on the meeting of the fabulous and the steadfast. I feel like there’s an Aesop’s fable in there somewhere.

As I flicked through the pages, however, it soon became clear that the writer was having trouble meeting their promise of 20,000 words. By the time I reached the name Funge, meaning “Stodgy” I was convulsed on the back seat weeping with laughter.

Dog, for a boy, was another favourite, apparently meaning “Dog”. I didn’t dare check what they suggested as the female equivalent of that name.

But one name, despite the odds, and despite my sister’s protests, has really stuck. Badger. Granted, it doesn’t sound like much on its own, but couple that with the fact he’ll have a middle name of Smith and a family name of Darley and I think we’re onto a winner.

Badger S. Darley. Now, that’s what I call a name. It’s almost as good as Isambard Kingdom Brunel or Hunter S. Thompson.

Never having actually read a Mills and Boon novel I can only hazard a guess, but I reckon that’s the name of the kind of rakish seducer you’d find in one of those classic romances: irresistibly charismatic and just a little bit eccentric.

Then again, I may be letting my imagination get away from me. And fortunately for my future nephew, my sister has made it clear that we’ll never have the chance to find out.

NB: Incidentally, when I was searching for pictures of badgers to illustrate this post, all that popped out of the photolibrary archives were pictures of dogs…

© Crystal Leigh Shearin

I’m registered with a service called Expertsources.co.uk, which claims to be “the UK’s most popular site for journalists wanting to find Media Experts in any subject.”

The idea is that if you’re writing a freelance feature and need an expert to make some worthy, intelligent-sounding noises, you can find them on this site.

I suspect the doctors, accountants, lawyers and so on pay for the privilege of being listed here, and in order to make sure they get their money’s worth, the site bombards journos with emails listing a selection of experts.

Today’s missive included a listing for an expert in maternity wedding dresses. What a marvellous thing to be an expert in! I had to wonder, though, what kind of training do you need to become an expert in this field?

One of my friends is doing a PHd in European politics, and is therefore classed as an expert in that field. And I think it would be fair to call a qualified vet an expert in animal medicine, but what background do you need to have to be classified as an expert in maternity wedding dresses?

I’m so intrigued that I’m tempted to write a feature about pregnant brides just so that I have an excuse to contact the expert and find out more…

© Craig Jewell

I’ve just finished writing a new story set almost entirely in a fairground. It’s got me thinking about the fairgrounds I used to visit as a child.

I grew up living in a house overlooking the biggest playing fields in my hometown – the main site for any passing fair.

I remember sitting on my bedroom windowsill watching side shows and rides being set up, hearing the music and voices and even smelling the peculiarly evocative mixture of sugar and grease that rises from any fairground.

It was a fun story to write because it let me stroll through the anticipation and bubbling happiness of those childhood memories, and try to capture a sense of them in a few carefully chosen sentences. I think that’s one of the main reasons I’m driven to write.

It’s my way of trying to hold onto the fragments of my life, in the same way that a photographer takes picture and an artist sketches.

More than that though, it’s a form of interpretation. Fairgrounds are such sizzling, complex places. There’s so much running beneath the surface – beneath the bawdy colour and fun.

In fact, I could write a whole book of short stories with each set in a fair, and each focusing on a different element, a different mood, a different side of the fairground’s personality.

© Rodolfo Clix

I’ve been playing with the most wonderful marketing idea for EssentialWriters.com.

Generally, bright ideas come easily to me – it’s making them work that’s the challenge. My initial flush of inspiration never takes feasibility into account.

That’s what it’s so important for me not to be working alone on a project as big as this website. If I was left to my own devices I would probably have fluttered along writing and uploading news stories, interviews and blog entries, with never a thought about whether anyone was reading them.

Now though, prompted by my collaborators, I have swung in the other direction and want to insist on everyone I meet, now to mention random passers-by and train conductors (“You want to check my ticket? Then promise me that you’ll take a look at EssentialWriters.com”) visiting the site.

But what remains true at the heart of this is the urge to create a happy, friendly, unconditionally welcoming website, which is the ethos my latest impractical marketing idea bloomed from.

Of my two collaborators, one was full of enthusiasm, and the other, the more experienced, more cynical of the pair pointed out all the hurdles, the potential costs and the limited benefits for the site. I suddenly understood that the idea appealed me more because it sounded like fun than because of any real, solid marketing benefits.

But it’s not all bad. The idea is for something I can’t quite share yet, but it’s something that I, as a writer, would love to come across as a literature festival. And that fact, coupled with my stubborn nature, means that it may yet come into being, provided I’m able to iron out all the concerns of my cynical collaborator.

© Bruce Brouwer

I interviewed singer/songwriter Beth Orton recently, and when I asked her which of her songs most defines her writing style, she told me Sweetest Decline.

This song was released on the album Central Reservation, and when I listened to it this morning I found myself trying to take in the words more than usual, to try to guess why Beth had chosen that one out of the dozens she’s written.

It’s a contemplative song that seems to be about transient moments of beauty. I love the lines “It’s like catching snow on my tongue” and “You can’t pin this butterfly down”. There’s a touch of melancholy about it. It’s a great example of her song writing prowess and ability to capture a mood, to pin it down, despite what that lyric may suggest.

It’s a horrible, I know, to ask someone to reveal something that defines them. But it’s also a question that provides some great answers, offering an insight into how writers regard their work. Every piece of writing, however far removed from our own lives, draw from our experiences to some extent, in my opinion.

However much we rely on our imaginations, we dredge inspiration from events we have experienced or witnessed, conversations shared or overheard, characters we meet on buses, at work, in our local fruit and veg shop, from the things we read, headlines that catch our attention, music that seeps into our consciousness whether we choose the radio station or not.

Every moment that unfurls around us presents more riches of material for us to pin down and use at will, and that’s what makes writing so satisfying. It’s the most basic form of recycling, really, so that everything we write comes from both within and outside us, both defining us, and the patterns of our lives.

I’m not sure how I would answer that question myself, other than to say that every single thing I write defines my writing style, at that moment in time.

© Leon Tiedt

When my father turned 60 I already knew I was going to be a writer and, failing a bona fide newspaper column of my own, I created a fictional newspaper feature about my dad entitled My Father The Hero.

Unbelievably, that was ten years ago, and today is my dad’s 70th birthday.

It’s a fact that astounds me. My remarkable, all-knowing, imaginative, sometimes child-like sometimes comical always wise, always ticklish, father is 70 years old today.

I saw him yesterday at a storytelling event hosted by Bath Literature festival, a context which reminded me of one of the reasons why my father continues to be my hero.

Throughout his life, he has always pursued professions that bring him pleasure. Before he met my mother and after studying Theology at Oxford, he worked as a vicar. When doubt struck about what he was preaching, he went on to become a social worker, using the endless patience and listening skills that made him such a great priest.

When he retired five years he ventured down a new path, rediscovering more of the characteristics that made him so much fun to grow up around, and became a storyteller.

It’s a career progression that inspires me.

His sense of adventure, his natural curiosity, his warmth and friendliness and open-minded-ness bring pleasure to him and those around him. He seems to see the good in every person, every situation, every moment.

I’m proud to call him my dad.

© Jeff Hire

Imagine if you found out that your childhood fears were genuine – that monsters lurk inside cupboards, there really is a Boogie Man under your bed and clowns are evil.

That’s what just happened to me. Well, sort of.

From the age of eight, when I became diabetic, the scariest thing about having the condition was the idea of developing Diabetic Retinopathy – the leading cause of blindness in the UK.

I have annual tests to check for this, and this year’s test seemed like any other, until I received a letter telling me they’d found the first signs of, you guessed it, background retinopathy.

The letter mentioned that I didn’t need treatment, which seemed like good news, and then referred me to the enclosed leaflet. Which, unfortunately, hadn’t been enclosed.

Good old NHS. I know resources are stretched, but a bit more information wouldn’t have gone amiss at this point.

I sat on my sofa contemplating a future in which I was likely to go blind at some point. Could I still be a writer without sight?

I don’t like that kind of uncertainty, so after a few sleepless nights emailed my diabetic nurse, Helen, and told her what had happened.

She replied within moments and I immediately felt reassured.

According to Helen, background retinopathy means early changes in the blood vessels feeding the retina at the back of my eyes, and it’s due mainly to the fact that I’ve had Type 1 diabetes for more than 20 years.

She went on to advise me: “The key thing to remember is that does not mean that serious changes in your eyes are inevitable, but it does mean that you need to take good care of things. The changes can progress to a more serious stage but any progression can be prevented or significantly slowed down. Keeping good blood glucose control plays a major part in this. Other factors that help are keeping blood pressure well controlled and avoiding smoking.”

So, basically, I need to keep on doing what I’m doing, and I could be seeing well into old age.

Phew!

Dave Gorman

I’ve just spent a very jolly half hour browsing through Dave Gorman’s blog. In case you somehow don’t know who he is, Dave is one of the UK’s fluffiest comics, who seems to waft through life having random ideas and, unlike most of us, actually acting on them.

I think Dave Gorman first came to international renown through his show Are You Dave Gorman?, in which he went looking for people who share his name. Bizarrely, this was hugely entertaining – there’s something about Dave that makes it impossible to do anything other than wish him the best, and to feel his joy whenever he meets yet another Dave Gorman.

He also went on a Googlewhack Adventure, plus an oddly disjointed journey across America attempting to use only independent restaurants, gas stations and motels. That’s what drew me to his blog – he’s visiting my local Waterstones tonight to promote America Unchained, his book about the roadtrip.

And he already has plans for his next odyssey. Having discovered how much he enjoyed cycling to stand-up gigs in London, he’s decided that during his next UK tour he will cycle to every venue, covering the whole of the UK from north to south, east to west.

It’s a huge undertaking, but then all of Dave’s ideas are huge. He isn’t a man to do things in a half-hearted manner. Even his blog demonstrates that, with new entries appearing every few days.

I think a large part of it is his absolute enthusiasm for life and his endless desire to communicate. I admire that. In fact, I intend to emulate it as much as possible.