So, Pickles and Hazel were moved downstairs for the evening (and every night thereafter), and the puffy-eyed youngsters went to sleep.  The two cages sat side by side on the kitchen table, just half an inch apart, and the feromone crazed hamsters, suddenly aware of each other, went bonkers.  I paused in the doorway to watch.  Pickles scaled the wire sides of his cage, and gripping the bars with wide-spread pink claws, he puffed out his chest and gazed in the direction of his longing.  The she-hamster Hazel, more sedate, wandered along her platform and came to rest directly before him, and turning her back, presented her plump little rear for his approval.  I swear, she looked coyly over her shoulder and gave him a come-hither bat of her lashes.

Pickles gulped, carried on up to the top of his cage and proceeded to crawl, upside down, across the ceiling bars with impressive ease.  Hazel wriggled her nose against her own bars, clearly impressed, as Pickles let go with first one back leg, then the next, to dangle like an ape, displaying his soft white under-belly for all to admire.  Hazel stood on her hind legs, and started to gnaw frantically.  Pickles, swaying dangerously high above the floor of his cage, let go with one claw, so that he now hung by just one tiny arm.  It was quite a feat and I gasped.  Both hamsters turned to look at me – the shock of which caused Pickles to lose his grip, sending him hurtling to the floor with a soft thud.  I paused a moment longer, to make sure he wasn’t mortally injured, moved the cages another inch apart and left them to it.  Ee-aw-ee-aw-ee-aw . . .

The next day, I wrote it all down, to set aside as one of those funny little observations which bring narratives to life.  It’s the everyday things which anchor characters – the events which occur when they’re not thinking too hard – the things that let us into the inner workings of their minds.

Find time to sit and stare awhile.  Perhaps it’s from the kitchen window, when the birds descend into the garden for their morning feed.  Or through the window of your car when you’re waiting for the kids to come out of school, to watch the mums and dads chatting at the school gates.  Watch their bodies, their faces, the interaction between different characters, and capture it on paper.  There might just be a little gem there, waiting to be developed into something new . . .

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To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.

This week I returned to my old school: Chichester High School for girls.  I was running a Super Learning Day with 30 Year Ten students – to give them an insight into the working life of a writer, and to get them started on some practical writing exercises that they might take away with them to develop further.

When I arrived, Sam Hellier, my excellent contact in the English faculty, escorted me to the library where I’d be based, telling me that one of the girls would show me back to the staff area at break time – I was worried I’d get lost.  The school is on the same site as in my day, but it has extended and expanded, making it hard to see where the old building starts and the new one begins.  I spotted the Youth Club straight away – a separate, ugly, flat-roofed building with a 1970s feel to it – somewhere I never ventured whilst I was a pupil.  It scared me.  All the kids there seemed rougher and more streetwise than a village kid like me.  And at any rate, I always had to catch the bus at the end of the day, whilst all the city kids were able to hang around the place being cool.

After the first break, I’d got my bearings.  The librarian told me that the library I’d been working in was actually the old gym, and suddenly everything slipped into place.  Strip back the new bookshelves and of course, there were the struts to hold the monkey bars in place, and just along the corridor was the old parquet-floored assembly hall, looking so much smaller than I remembered.

At lunchtime, Sam pointed out two old black and white staff group photos, taken a few years after I’d left.  A good number of my old teachers were there – Mrs Bowers the RE teacher, Miss Horn the French teacher, Miss Bird the PE teacher.  I even got to meet two of my English teachers: Mr Perring for whom I was a model pupil in the first year, and Mrs Moore who unfortunately got the sloppy end of my school career in the fifth year.  She was pleased, however, to hear that of my three O’levels, two of them were English . . .

The teaching day with the students was a success – they were a lovely group of interested and interesting people, and after a full-on session of readings, writing and discussion, I ended with a sneak preview of my second novel, which is set in an all-girl secondary school on the south coast of England in the 1980s.  I’m pleased to say it went down very well, and I think I’ve got at least a few readers lined up for when it launches in May 2011!

I’m still in the final phases of completing the book – and visiting my old school has given me an exciting burst of energy and recollection which will certainly feed into the final chapters of the novel as I near the finish line.

Thanks to the staff and pupils at Chichester High School for Girls for inviting me in – it really was fun.

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To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.

“The creative process is not all inventive; it is partly corrective, critical, nutritive, and fostering – a matter of getting this creature to be the best it can be.” (Janet Burroway, Writing Fiction, 2000)

This week I’ve been meeting with my agent and UK publishers to discuss the progress of my second novel.  It currently stands at 92,000 words, has been in concept for the past six years and written over a two year period.  Much of it has been workshopped with my writing friends, and I’ve spent many hours rewriting and redrafting, to ensure that the story of Sarah (my main character) unfolds through compelling and believable prose.  As with Glasshopper, writing this novel has been akin to the consuming  passions of a new relationship: you think about it all the time, make connections between your object of desire and unrelated situations, it unsettles you, it surprises and excites, it keeps you awake at night . . .

The story is told over two time zones: present day, and 1985 when Sarah is a fifteen year old schoolgirl.  1985 is the larger, central section of the book, which is flanked by two smaller, present-day sections, culminating in Sarah attending a school reunion.  When I met with the team on Wednesday, I knew they had suggestions to make – but I didn’t anticipate quite the level of work that would follow.  In essence, and cutting out much of the insightful and contemplative discussion, this was the summary: The 1985 section is wonderful – it’s a page-turner, we love the characters, we love the story, we love the intrigue: we want more of it.  The present day section – we don’t think that the first part is even necessary or important to the story: we want less of it.

Now, you might think that at this point I would drop my head in my hands and weep, or perhaps argue the case for retaining what is essentially 30,000 words of blood, sweat and tears.  But, as I heard what they had to say, I knew, instinctively, they were right.  Completely right.  And I knew this because, in the writing of the book I enjoyed the 1985 sections more, I loved the characters more, I wanted to know what happened to them more.  In the present-day sections, I think, if I’m honest, I was just less attached.

Despite knowing that I have a great deal of work ahead of me, I’m actually excited, because I get to spend more time in that central part of Sarah’s world, delving deeper and enhancing the story to, in the words of Janet Burroway, make this creature the best that it can be.

The moral of the story: choose an agent and publisher who you trust and importantly, who you connect with – because if they understand you, and understand your writing, your work can only get better.

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To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.

I belong to a Book Club myself, and I like nothing more than a lively discussion with a group of interesting readers.  I’m often invited by people in my local area to attend their Reading Group for a discussion of Glasshopper, and I’m always delighted to go along and meet my readers.

Last night I spent a delightful evening with a group of women from Chichester, whose book club has been running for three years.  Thank you to Fiona, Jo, Rhona, Judith, Tanya, Chrissie, Genevieve, Janine, Julie and Suzanna (and hello to Sally who couldn’t be there, but who I remember from schooldays!).

The group had some really interesting questions to ask about the book, with a strong emphasis on the characters and relationships within, so our conversations were fascinating – and as always, so insightful for me as a writer.  In my own writing process, the characters have to arrive first, before I can even start to plot out the shape and direction of the novel.  After all, if a story isn’t centred around real, complex characters who you care about, why bother to read on?

At the end of the evening, I gave a preview reading from my second novel, which is planned for publication in Spring 2011.  The next novel opens in the present day with its main character, Sarah, receiving an invitation to her school reunion.  As the story progresses,  we travel back to 1985, to Sarah’s all-girl comprehensive school on the south coast of England, providing a view onto her relationships between schoolfriends, family and the world around her.  I read an extract from the 1985 section, so there was plenty to relate to for a good number in the group!

Writers must always remain grounded in terms of their audience; yes, you must write for yourself, yes, you must write the story you want to tell, but if you’re lucky enough to see your work in print, embrace your readers because their passion and interest in your work will teach you more than you can know.

Thanks again to the Chichester group – and many thanks for the beautiful flowers and lovely fizz.

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To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.

Yesterday there was much excitement at home, as the men of our household prepared to watch the Portsmouth v Chelsea FA Cup Final.  At 3:00pm, armed with a glass of beer (for the 42-year old) and a tub of Pringles (for the 8-year old), they took their seats amid cries of ‘Play up Pompey’ and ‘Blue Army!’  An audible sense of hope hung in the air, as Pompey, despite recent relegation and financial meltdown, took their place against one of the wealthiest clubs in the world, Chelsea.

Now, I’ve never been a great fan of The Beautiful Game, but I’m fascinated by the passions it stirs in the hearts of its devotees.  My husband, Colin, a strong, unexcitable type, can be roused into fits of high emotion at the sight of a near miss or an unjust referee or a back-of-the-net goal.  For Colin, Portsmouth was his local team, the team his brothers supported, and the team he, by default, grew loyal to.  And for our son Samson, there’s no choice in the matter; already, he is a stalwart Pompey fan.

Listening in on and watching others whilst wrapped up in their particular passions can be an excellent source of dialogue for your writing.  Here’s a playback of a couple of the conversations of the day:

The first one is a text conversation between Colin and our old friend, Chris, a so-called Chelsea ‘fan’, shortly before kick-off:

Chris: “Fancy a wager on the match?  The loser buys the beers.”

Colin: “If Pompey win, I’ll buy ALL the beers.”

Chris: “You’re just trying to wriggle out of buying a round.”

In just a few words, they convey the kind of friendship they have: a solid one based on comfortable banter.  It’s no wonder; they’ve been mates since they were sixteen.

The next conversation was between Colin and our 8-year old, Samson in the closing moments of the match.  I love this one – Samson’s language conveys straightforward disappoinment in Pompey’s defeat, whilst Colin’s more philosophical replies wouldn’t be out of place on the set of a Ridley Scott historical epic:

Samson gazed at the screen as the Chelsea players grappled and cheered in an ecstacy of victory.  “I can’t believe we lost, Dad.”

“Unfortunately, son, we’re Pompey till we die.”  Colin poured the last of his beer into his glass.

“I thought you’d be more upset than this, Dad.”

Colin turned to Samson and patted his leg with a firm, flat hand.  “We played valiantly, Sammo.  We can hold our heads high.”

After a few minutes spent staring at the screen mournfully, they dusted themselves off and went into the garden to plant sunflower seeds.  Better luck next time, lads.

I love writing dialogue, and when I read I find I’m most attracted to dialogue which is spare, pared back enough to reveal the true dynamics between one character and the next.  And when characters are talking about something which truly excites them, the subtleties of their identities are able to shine through brighter than ever.

So, listen in a little more, and see where it gets you.

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To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.

I was born on 30th August 1970 in Kingston-upon-Thames.  As the midwife unravelled the twisted cord from my gasping throat, the famous Isle of Wight festival was in full swing, just a short stretch away across the shimmering solent.  Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, Miles Davis, The Who, Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen . . . they were all there, creating cultural history in blur of beards and beads.

I’ve always been fascinated by the coinciding events of my birth and the festival.  Perhaps it’s because I admire so many of the acts that performed there, or maybe because I have certain nostalgic memories of my Seventies childhood.  Either way, the fascination took hold, and I ended up using the setting of the 1970 festival as a backdrop to one of the chapters in Glasshopper.  In this extract, Mary is at the festival with her friend Gypsy, having left her small children at home with their father:

It’s late on Saturday night, and we’re dancing arm in arm to The Doors.  There’s been an electrical fault, so the band are playing in near darkness, enhancing the eerie quality of the music.  We’ve been drinking cider since we arrived at midday, and my skin glows hot from too much sun.  Gypsy’s been braiding my hair, in tight furrows that run from my forehead to the base of my neck.  My exposed skin feels alert and sensuous.  I’ve been kissed by men, complete strangers in kaftans and waistcoats, and told by Gypsy to enjoy the moment, to chill.  This afternoon, she reached out towards me as we lay dozing on the grass, catching the string of my tunic between her fingers like a butterfly.  The cheesecloth cotton fell open between my breasts.  When I awkwardly tried to gather it back up she said, “Leave it.  It looks good a bit lower.  Less uptight.  You can’t see anything anyway.  It’s a bit more alluring, that’s all.”  She smirked and undid her own shirt one button more.  I lay on my back squinting at the too-bright blue sky, and three swans flew past, high above us.  “Swans,” I said, and Gypsy just laughed.

Now, Jim Morrison’s curls glimmer from the shadows of the stage, and his voice hums through my ribcage.  I think I’m in love, and I’m happy that my shirt is undone.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and a white face appears between mine and Gypsy’s.  “Babe, who’s your friend?”  His accent is American, nasal.

“Zigg!  You genius!  How’d you find us?  Mary, this is Zigg – from St Martin’s.  Genius!”

Zigg stands with his hands on his hips.  In the night light his skin is translucent pale as if lit up by the moon.  His neck is long and elegant, and his white hair grows away from a high forehead, feathering down to his shoulders.  He wears a white bed sheet like a cape.

“You two stand out from the crowd, Gyp.  It was easy to find you, Babe.”  He kisses Gypsy but keeps his eyes on me, smiling knowingly.  “So, you’re Mary, then?”

“Isn’t it a bit dark for sunglasses?” I say, sounding prim.  “It’s nearly midnight.”

He fingers the little round glasses, which are perfectly black.  “I’m albino,” he says, and he passes me a joint.

I take a few drags, and giggle, not because of the joint, but because I’m smoking a joint with an albino at a festival.

“She’s cool,” he says to Gypsy, and we dance.

I researched the real events as I was writing – there really was an electrical fault on The Doors’ set, and it seemed a fitting scenario in which Zigg could meet up with Mary, in the half-light of evening, where his unworldly palour would be most strangely accentuated.

For today’s exercise:

1. Try to think of an event in history which fascinates you.  It can be anything.
2. Now, place your character at the heart of this event and start to write down what they can see/feel/hear/smell . . .  Is your character happy/sad/fearful/excited?  Write continuously for five minutes.
3. Your character has a secret, which they are anxious to conceal.  Decide what it is, and think about how this secret affects them emotionally.
4. Introduce someone else who your character knows, and who must never learn about the secret.  Start to write the conversation between them.  Write continuously for ten minutes, and see where the conversation goes.

Setting your action in the middle of something real can sometimes lend it a sense of established authenticity which allows your dialogue to flow more freely.  Try it out . . .

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To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.

I’ve just got back from the Pigbaby Literary Weekend Party which was held at Beechwood Hall near Lewes in aid of Save the Children.  The event was organised by the energetic and talented John Davies aka Shedman, who invited a host of authors and storytellers to give their time for free to help with the fundraising.  Despite the bad weather, it was a good turnout and a great family atmosphere, with a variety of superb writers including Bethan Roberts, Alison MacLeod, Dave Swann, and Marian Garvey.  Nicky Singer, author of the wonderful Featherboy, was on hand to announce the winners of the Pighog Short Story Competition for writers of children’s fiction.

As I drove home, it got me thinking about public speaking.  Fellow writers regularly tell me, “I love writing, but I can’t bear the thought of reading in front of a crowd.  I’d never do an open-mic slot.”  I sympathise.  It can be a nerve jangling experience, and it’s not always for the faint-hearted.  But if you get beyond the fear and face it out, it can also be incredibly fulfilling – and have the added benefit of advertising you and your work to new readers.

I remember the first time I had to stand up and present to a room full of people.  I was nineteen at the time, and I nearly died of terror.  I trembled and stuttered and sweated profusely, and to make things worse, every time I looked up into the crowd I saw acute pity in the eyes of my thankfully generous audience.  Soon afterwards, my boss sent me on an affective presentations course in which I learned the basics of, at the very least, holding it together through a talk.

When I arrived for the course, I found myself in a room with five other candidates and a tutor.  To my abject horror, set up in the corner of the room was a large tripod and camcorder.  For the next few hours the tutor bullied me into presenting to the group, the pain of which was only eclipsed by the humiliation of openly watching it back on a big screen.  It was toe-curlingly embarrassing – I still break into a sweat thinking about it now.  BUT, by the time I left that room of hell, my presentation skills had improved immeasurably.  By watching myself back, I became more self-aware, and therefore better equipped to address my horribly obvious flaws.  Today, I’m by no stretch the best presenter there is – but I’m a great deal better than I was twenty years ago!

For today’s exercise, I encourage you to film yourself reading your writing aloud.  You can do this without an audience!  Select a 5 minute piece, and set up your camera to capture you (full body) reading, as you would to a full crowd.  Play it back.  Jot down those things which make you cringe: fidgeting with your hair, awkwardly roaming about the stage, that weird thing you do with your mouth . . .  Then re-film yourself, with these things in mind.  Then watch again.  Then film again.  Try this over a few days, and when you’re feeling more confident, watch the first and last videos back to back and see the difference.

I’ve no doubt you’ll see the improvement, and hopefully it will bestow you with the confidence you need to step up to that open-mic slot after all.

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To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.

An authentic sense of place is one of the most important qualities you can bestow upon your story or novel.  Location, if well drawn, will serve as a mirror to your characters’ inner emotions, helping to propel the story towards vital actions and dialogue.  I think of locations as emotional landscapes – quite apart from positioning your characters in a particular place and time, they can provide a channel through which those characters can say the things they don’t want to or manage to say in words.

I spend a lot of time walking and thinking about location and many of my stories are situated in real places – they’re absolutely works of fiction, but very often I choose landscapes that are real to me.  I find using a living location frees me to get right under the skin of a description, allowing me to move my characters around in a way that already feels familiar and comfortable.

In Glasshopper, part of the novel is set in rural France, and I based the location on a place where I holidayed as a child.  It was a semi-converted barn in deepest Dordogne with basic facilities – a portaloo in the wood shed, a camping gas stove, and a standpipe for water at the edge of the wood which backed onto the property.  We bathed in a tub in the back garden, which was filled in the morning and left to warm up throughout the day.  It was a magical place, in the middle of nowhere, and we had many carefree days there, slowly roasting under the Dordogne sun.  It seemed the natural place for my story to end.  In this extract you can see how the location mirrors the boys’ emotional states, where the oppressive heat seems to render them inactive:

Something shifts in our little corner of France.  The heat presses down like a wet blanket, and the drill of the cicadas buzzes inside my ears.  Around the back of the barn, I spot Mum, sitting on a rock, staring out across the valley.  Her skinny brown legs hang over the edge, and she looks like a little girl from this distance.  I stay in the shadows and lean against the cool stone wall.  Andy is hunched on his heels a little way from Mum, scratching at the dusty grass with a little stick.  Every now and then he looks over at her, pausing as if he’s trying to work out what to say.  Then he goes back to his scratching, flicking up little puffs of dust as the hole grows bigger.  He’s guarding her.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask him, casting shade over his hole.

He shrugs, and carries on digging without look up.

I nudge him with my foot.  “I said, where’s Dad?”

Andy looks up at me now.  “Fuck off, Jake,” he says.  “I wish you’d never been born.”  His eyes are hard.  There’s a buzzard overhead, and its shadow distracts me briefly.

I push him over sideways, and stand over him.  “Cockroach,” I whisper, turning to walk away.

Mum looks up, and silently slides off her rock.  She passes us without a word or a look and goes through the back door into the house.  Out of the corner of my eye I see a dot moving in one of the fields across the valley.  Dad.  He’s left us to it.  Mum reappears, now wearing her bikini, sunhat and glasses, and dragging a deckchair behind her.  She sets it up beside her rock, then goes back inside the house.  She comes back out carrying a bottle of wine and a large glass.  The bottle’s more than half full.  Just before she settles in her chair, she turns and rests her eyes on me.  It’s not an angry look, or a sad look.  It’s a puzzled expression, like when you’re trying to make out something tiny in the distance.  She sits, pours a glass of wine, and stays there with her back to us, gazing out over the valley.  Dad has now disappeared from view, leaving nothing but a heat haze in his place.

“Careful you don’t burn, Mum,” I call over to her.

But she doesn’t answer or move.  Over the back of the deckchair, all that I can see of her is her hand, dangling over the armrest, limply cradling the full glass of red wine.  It disappears for a few seconds, before returning to position.  I wonder how long she’ll be gone for this time.

Never be afraid to use real places.  Unlike people, places don’t object to being represented in stories, and they can endow your writing with the sense of authenticity and emotional depth that your characters deserve.

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To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.

In another world, I’d only ever eat things which are good for me, read only excellent literature and watch  only intellectually stimulating and culturally rich TV.  But hey, life isn’t always like that.  The truth is, every now and then I like nothing more than to settle down on the sofa with a big slab of cake and a juicy bit of trash TV.

I’d guess that I’m not the first person to partake in this guilty indulgence, otherwise they wouldn’t continue to produce this genre of dumbed-down voyeurism – you know the kind of show – Jerry Springer, Oprah and the like, the kind of shows which take the idea of washing your dirty laundry in public to a whole new global level.

Back in 2005, I was struggling to write a literary history essay which was due in within the week.  My procrastination had reached epic proportions – the laundry was washed and hanging on the line, the kitchen was sparkling, the carpets hoovered; in fact the house had never looked so clean.  I decided to give myself a short reprieve, in the hope that a twenty minute pause would break the cycle and get me going again.  Bearing in mind that I never watch daytime TV, it felt like a dirty secret before I’d even switched on the set.  Regardless, I made myself a cup of tea, grabbed the biscuit tin and reached for the remote control.  Before I knew it (and several biscuits later), I was sucked into some generic name-and-shame show, perhaps it was Jeremy Kyle, in which the featured family were waiting anxiously for the results of a DNA test.

When my twenty minutes were up, I couldn’t bring myself to turn off the TV . . . they were about to reveal the true paternity of this poor lad, who sat trembling and weeping on the stage.  I can’t remember the exact result, just that the non-father left the stage disappointed through one door, the air-punching true father and bemused lad disappeared through the other, and the talk show host smiled into the camera looking pretty pleased with himself all round.

Whilst the TV show was an interesting diversion, most importantly it got me thinking about my own character in Glasshopper, which was in its early stages of writing.  What if there was a question over Jake’s paternity?  The story was based in the Eighties, at a time prior to the certainty afforded by DNA tests.  What then?  If there was a question over your paternity, you’d grow up always watching, waiting for physical similarities to confirm or deny your parentage, never really able to be entirely sure.

I finished my cuppa, snapped shut the (now significantly lighter) biscuit tin and got out my creative writing notebook.  Whilst my trash TV break didn’t solve the problem of my unwritten essay, it proved to be a turning point in the development of my character and story.

So, give yourself a break every once in a while.  You never know what gifts it might bring . . .

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To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.

Remember the ‘Charley Says’ adverts, warning us away from dangerous places and menacing strangers?  Despite these warnings, how many of us, as children, would still return to those forbidden places time after time, in search of longed-for adventure?  Many of us, I would guess.

This week I visited the Selsey Writers’ Circle, to talk about my own writer’s journey, give a couple of readings and run a mini creative writing exercise.  It was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon, and the writers got started on some really compelling and vivid pieces of prose.  Many thanks to Avril Evitts and all the members for making me feel so welcome.

I talked to the group about the way in which much of my own writing draws on childhood and adolescence – I’m attracted to the teenage narrator and the complex social structures that kids have to negotiate every day at school, at home, in the playground.  We learn so much in so few short years; it’s no wonder those experiences dominate such a large portion of our total memories.

For today’s piece, I’m going to recreate the exercise we ran in Selsey this week.  I’ve adapted the idea from a lecture given by one of my tutors, Dave Swann, on the Creative Writing BA at the University of Chichester.  The subject is ‘Forbidden Places’ – those places that are strictly off limits for any number of reasons.  For me, it was the village dump, a forbidden playground of abandoned cars and fridges and rusted bicycle wheels.  We all knew it was dangerous, and we knew our parents would go spare if they caught us there.  But it was an exciting place, rich and full of possibilities for a seven or eight year old child.  If you fancy a trip down memory lane, check out this Public Information Film from 1971.  So, to the exercise:

1)  Firstly, visualise your forbidden place.  It’s somewhere you shouldn’t be.  It might be a room in your own house; a rough part of town; the house of a friend your parents disapprove of.

In the present tense, describe the place, using all your senses: the sounds, the smells, the way it looks.  Write continuously for 5 minutes.

2)  Now imagine that you’re not in this place alone.  You have a friend with you, and you’re excited to be there.

In the first person, write continuously for 5-10 minutes, describing the action and including dialogue if appropriate.

3)  Now, you’re at risk of discovery.  You hear or see someone approaching.

Continue to write, remembering to draw on all your senses.  Keep writing for 10-15 minutes, then read it back to yourself aloud.  With any luck, there’ll be something worth expanding on . . .

For a nostalgic look at more of those Public Information Films, including ‘Charley Says’, ‘Clunk-Click’ and the ‘Green Cross Code Man’, click here.

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To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.