There is always something on the go.

I’ve a stack of short stories, some annoying scraps of poetry, journals, rants and raves, notes, opening paragraphs, morning pages and ideas scribbled on the back of receipts and bus tickets. Often, I write in response to a prompt from the writers’ group I attend. Sometimes ideas arrive half-formed, ready to be knocked into shape. Sometimes they refuse that treatment and lurk in the shadows.

I have recently finished a novel set in the world of football. Thanks to the staff at the National Football Museum archives, I was able to read some incredibly sexist football mags from the late 60s and – shock! horror! – Joe Striker’s missus was actually allowed to drive his Jag! The project started, stalled, stopped and started again as I wrestled with its structure and the narrative voice. For too long, my ears were denied music while I listened to endless footie-related podcasts and transfer talk.

Suffice it to say that the new project will have scant, if any, references to the beautiful game. It’s very early days, but I am making progress.