Blurred photo, anyone?

One of the characters in my latest novel  is a young, ambitious photographer working on a provincial newspaper in the 1960's. My research on the subject was going  well until I met an old college friend I'll call Angela, who spent several years  as a  freelance photographer. After offering lots of useful advice on the subject, she asked what I was like as a snapper ( a cool word in the sixties.) Cringing, I handed her my mobile phone ( 5.0 megapixel autofocus and no doubt  very uncool.) I have to say her face was a picture. Below are some of Angela's  favourites from my' portfolio' which she's planning to use in her forthcoming book  'What to do when The Camera Lies.'

York Minster after three glasses of wine

My wardrobe taken without glasses

Mr Guernsey Writer driving by roadworks

And finally...My 'fairy granddaughter' flying away

Can't see what's wrong with them, myself...

Kindle - Dream or Disaster?

Seen a new novel you like the sound of?  Want  to read it now? Wait no longer - with Kindle you can.

That's the sort of copy I turned out regularly in the eighties when I worked for a small advertising agency. All of it was glib and no-one, I suspect, believed a word of it. So for some time now I  have remained unmoved by all the publicity generated by the Amazon Kindle.  Worse still, I  have treated the  e-book phenomenon with scorn, believing nothing could take the place of the trusty old book: the smell of new paper as you scan the pages, the lure of the cover as you hold it in your hands, the sight of your book shelves bulging with literary talent from every corner of the world... (sorry I'm back in advertising  land again)  How could this compare with the lowly Kindle?

But then, blog reader, (with apologies to Jane Eyre) I  bought one. (Or more accurately was given one as a present by my daughter.)

And now, I simply take a different view. I can read the latest books wherever I go and edit my own work at the same time. I can browse through great literature as if  I were in a library,  without  even moving from my chair.  And best of all, I can buy a book at the touch of a button.

I remember the first time I had a feature published in a mainstream magazine; I rushed into the newsagent and bought four copies, one of which I have to this day. It was real, tangible, something I could keep to hand on to the next generation.  These days my house is full of vintage books which reveal so much through their  smell,  feel, and texture. They are full of photographs -a mysterious sepia print or a delicate tapestry-passed down to us from another age.  How dull life would be without them.

So I still don't believe that e-books will ever entirely replace the real thing , but  I hope for now that the two can sit side by side in a rapidly changing world. 

A taste of my new novel...

GUERNSEY 1941

A full moon cast shadows over the blackened rocks as two figures stumbled along the cliff path.

‘Have you done this before?’  He pulled the brambles aside.

‘Done what?’

‘This walk, in the blackout. If the Germans catch you they’ll shoot.’

‘Not when I’m with you, Reverend Martel, surely?’

‘I’m not immune, Lydia.  The enemy’s still the enemy.’

 ‘And I’m still free.’ She forced her way past him. ‘Why did you have to follow me?’

‘I was worried, that’s all. Tell me what’s wrong.’ A cloud passed over the moon, plunging them into darkness. 

‘Nothing.’ She hesitated.  ‘Well, if you must know, it’s Otto Kruger. I think he suspects something. He’s been behaving strangely recently.’

            ‘Damn the bloody Commandant. I’m sick of hearing you talk about him. I hope he burns in hell.’

‘What do you mean?’ Lydia frowned. ‘You know why I see Otto…’

Martin winced as the name left her lips. ‘Of course I know. And you’re doing a grand job from what I can gather.’

‘A job you asked me to do, don’t forget.’

‘I didn’t ask you, if you remember.’

‘But you didn’t stop me either…’

‘What was I supposed to do?’ Get down on my knees and beg?’ His face contorted.  ‘They’ll give you sainthood after the war and raise a flag on Castle Cornet. “Saint Lydia”-how does that sound?’

‘STOP IT, STOP IT…’  Her hand struck his jaw with a loud crack.

A trickle of blood ran down his chin.

‘I deserved that,’ he said, wiping his mouth with his knuckle. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me?’  He turned, abruptly, striding back down the path and disappeared into the night.