I’ve just said goodbye to my little brother, David. It still feels surreal – I expect it always will because I just assumed he would always be there.

I've read a lot of reflective blog posts this month: people looking back over  the year and the decade with it. I'll certainly take personal stock - at some point soon - but I figured it would be far more interesting to hear from Bhola's Children. 

It doesn't matter if it a haiku poem or an epic saga, whether it's your first short story or your tenth novel, that frisson of excitement on receiving an acceptance, never disappears.

Somehow, it’s now ten years since I left my ‘proper’ (permanent and pensionable) job to become a freelance writer, editor and tutor in all things writing.

From Killer Women to Bloody Scotland, September has seen me pitch – literally – into a flurry of crime…I’ve been grilled by a panel, defended myself in public, put my statement down on paper, and got my mugshot up there with the best of them. The confession? Of course, I’m talking about the writing of crime, not actually perpetrating it. And even then, ‘crime’ might be stretching it a bit, I’m probably sheltering more under the broad label of psychological thriller. I’ve always loved crime novels, from classic Agatha Christie to contemporary cosies from Lynn Cahoon, and all the local (Scotland) writers in between. The same goes for psychological suspense. But had I ever seen myself writing either? No, not really. The whole genre has always been a mystery (no pun intended) to me. How does an author do it? Painstaking planning and water-tight plotting; clues, red herrings and hints; authentic...