Flinty gaze

Not all of us know what “flint” is.  A flint, sure—that’s the thing you make a spark off in an old Zippo, or in Scouts, or that you can splinter down (knapping) to make a sharp arrow- or spear-head. But—a flint house? Growing in a chalk hillside? In layers? And as the “sand” (or rather, shingle)…

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Energizing Britain

The morning sun catches these off the southern coastline of England, though the rest of the day you have to look hard to see them. I’m not sure I’d be keen on an unbroken fence-line of wind-mills along the horizon, but in patches like this, they’re as sculptural as a Calder mobile. 

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Writing retreat

So, day one of a very brief writing retreat: the good is that it’s gray and cool enough that I’m interested in staying indoors summoning words, at least until the sun comes out this afternoon. The bad is that the house doesn’t seem to have a coffeemaker.

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A writer’s hideaway

I need to write. I have two short pieces and a lot of thinking to do, and it’s hard to put words on the screen or thoughts in order when life is its usual chaotic self. So I’ve come to the coast for a few days, to write, here: I’ll let you know how it…

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Oh to be in England

I’m back in England for a few days, where the fields are considerably greener than they were when I was here in July and August. And the cricket players seem happier about it, too.

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The Writer on the Road

My grandfather (here) was famous for his ability to pack. His parcels for mailing were works of art: methodical, compact, secure.  It’s a knack I inherited, and used to impress my husband when I could take his suitcase apart and re-pack it with half as much again inside. When I was in high school, back…

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SinCing into a Retreat

I’m in Victoria, BC for a retreat with my Canadian Sisters in Crime. Not that they’re all Canadian, because there seem to be a fair number of folk from south of the border. And not that they’re all Sisters, since my friend Jim Ziskin is here (male Sisters are generally termed Misters, in SinC lingo.)…

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Blenheim in the heat

A summer holiday in England is always a toss-up. I’ve had summers where even homo sapiens feel the sogginess of hoof and mouth disease, and other summers with dry reservoirs and lengthy hose-pipe bans. This is one of the Augusts when green is but a memory. So here in our holiday home just outside the…

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Lockdown & New Guinea

One of the earliest sections written in what eventually became Lockdown was a story set in Papua New Guinea. I spent some months there in late 1970s, on my honeymoon (because yes, what else do academics do for a honeymoon than go visit a Stone Age community?) which makes for one of those illustrations that a…

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The arts of Venice

(One week—seven days—to Island of the Mad…) When I decided to set a Russell & Holmes book in Venice, my time-table was fairly set: the chronology of the series has reached June, 1925, and unless I decided to skip some time, that’s when it would take place. Of course, summers in Venice are a mixed blessing.…

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