Yesterday afternoon I found myself in a part of Edinburgh I used to know very well – I worked there – but haven’t spent time in for years (literally). There was no good reason to linger; I’d been collecting a parcel and vaguely figured it was a nice enough to meander home through the Meadows.  

Another six months of being an author-for-a year, and another few thousand words written. They’ve been written in lockdown, out of it, fitted around home-schooling, and often into the night.

This month, several new books have joined the teetering pile on my ‘books I’ve been lucky enough to have had a vague something to do with’ shelf. Two collections, a short story, and a novel – something for any time, place and mood, in fact!

When I first got a call from Betty at the Irish Writers Centre, asking had I entered the Novel Fair, I presumed I’d made an error: forgotten to attach a synopsis, left my name on an anonymous form, or had my card declined for the entry fee.

Happy New Year! If I can still say that at the end of January - and that it doesn't come across as sarcastic or cynical, in the light of the dreich winter days and ongoing global pandemic.