It's often hard to feel motivated at this time of year - the bleak mid-winter and all that, plus it was my *%th birthday in January - but writing-wise things have got off to a flying start, with several short story sales, and a trip to meet my editor at their lovely Little, Brown offices in London.
Once there, I had to stop myself stroking all the shiny new books arranged temptingly on shelves and tables, and from staring around, wide-eyed like a girl in a story, visiting New York for the first time (or doing something equally awe-inspiring and dream-come-trueish).
I'm sure if my lovely agent hadn't been with me, keeping the conversation on track, and asking relevant questions, they'd have assumed I'd wandered in off the street, and arranged to have me escorted out of the building.
As it was, there are plans afoot to publicise my third novel before it's release in June, so we brainstormed a few ideas and I came away feeling enthused and raring to go.
So here I am, gazing out of the window, snow blizzarding (is that a word?) down, and I'm suddenly in the mood for writing a Christmas story, even though it's too late for that. Or too early.
Still, I've found that when inspiration strikes, in any form, it's best not to ignore her. Inspiration is a her, I'm sure. I can smell her perfume.*
