I’ve been re-writing the draft of The Art of the Imperfect, the first novel in my crime series. It’s meant putting on a different hat, an editor’s hat. What I realised while talking to a writer-friend recently is that this is when my internal critic kicks in. I’m no longer playing, writing for my eyes only, people might actually read this stuff.

It’s revealing. This is fiction, it is still revealing. When writing a story, I rely on my own experience, on research (including listening to others and trying to put myself in their shoes) and imagination. However, the latter won’t work without the former two. I don’t believe writers who say their stories solely come from their imagination. For a piece to be engaging to readers, the emotional truth of it must come from the writer.

So these novels – the emotional truth of them at least – come from me, and I am putting it out there for others to do what they will with it. That is scary. And yet I continue.

Don’t forget Scarborough Flare tickets on sale this week: For writers and readers there’s much to enjoy.


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