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I’ve been working on Shame (on and off) for a long time, and now, finally, I’m ready to let it go out into the cruel world. Shame is a literary mystery about sin, secrets and a guilty conscience….well, let me put it in a nutshell for you.

Sisters Alix and Kate run an agency specialising in helping domestic violence victims, but their complicated past colours everything that they do. When Julian Fitzwarren asks them to investigate the death of his ex-wife on a remote coastal property, their history comes back to bite them. People are sometimes more dangerous than they seem…

To be honest, it’s been hard to write a mystery. I’m generally more interested in character, and this novel has more interesting characters (I think) than you can poke a stick at. Kate, the picture-perfect sweetheart with a difficult past. Alix, her spiky and not altogether likeable younger sister. Julian Fitzwarren, the Oxbridge-educated womaniser with a sadistic streak. His romantic rival Rowan – a simple working man, or is there more to him?

So this novel isn’t a conventionally written novel, and it’s not going to please everyone. Maybe it won’t please anyone! But here it is… and if you’d like to read the first three chapters, you can download them here. It’ll be published, God willing, in a matter of weeks.

Enjoy.

That’s right, I’m sitting here writing in the nude, and that’s NOT because I’m trying to get in the mood to write erotica…but because it’s fucking 35 degrees here! And I can tell you, it’s not a pretty sight (thankfully, at least half of it is under the desk).

Anyway, I might have mentioned that I hate research – but I’m currently researching murderers, and I have to admit it’s kind of engrossing. Did you know, for instance, that most violent dudes have violent parents (one or both), grow up in violent neighbourhoods or have really traumatic childhoods? Poor things, I hear you say….no, but really, it takes a lot to make most people kill. Even Richard Kuklinski, who literally can’t count the number of people he’s offed, felt rotten about the first one. Most murderers, in fact, would rather they hadn’t become murderers: they would have liked to have an ordinary life, but either their brains or their circumstances said otherwise.

It’s true that not everyone who’s abused as a kid ends up killing someone. It’s also true that not everyone who smokes ends up with lung disease, and many amputees don’t enter the Paralympics. It’s a numbers game: as Whitey Ford says, you know where you ends, yo it usually depends on where you start.

Why am I researching murderers? Because one of my current writing projects involves a hitman, ‘Uncle Trev’, in Long Bay who is visited by a reforming prison visitor. Paul. Trev wants out on parole: Paul wants to help him become a better man. But is that really possible, or is Trev just acting nice until he’s on the outside with a gun under his coat and scores to settle?

Do you know anyone who’s killed someone? Do you believe in unmitigated evil, or is there an innocent child in all of us? Can a person who’s done bad things in his or her life change? Feel free to comment at https://butimbeautiful.wordpress.com/2021/01/24/the-naked-novelist/

Right now, I’m editing my new novel Shame, for the billionth time, and I notice – as I always do when I’m editing – that I’m cutting.

As a writer, you get seduced by words. You want to describe a thing, you want to make people feel it, see it, know it. So you pile on the words. Adjectives, similes, metaphors, adverbs, words upon words. You see what I mean?

And then you come back to read what you’ve written and it becomes obvious. There are too many words. Sure, an adjective, a simile, here and there is nice. What would Shakespeare be without decoration? “When I first saw my Juliet, I thought she was cute.”

It’s like when you get dressed up for a party, and you think (well, this is what I do, anyway), oh, this scarf will look nice, and I’ll just add a bracelet, and that sparkly necklace, or maybe a belt… And then you look in the mirror and you just know you’ve overdone it. They don’t call elegance simple for nothing.

Goodbye, beautiful words. I loved you once, then I killed you!

Spring comes ugly to the pinoaks in Canberra, Australia. Walking my sister’s little dog down the street – stopping every three houses so she can pee and scratch in the fallen leaves – I pass under their tattered canopy, rust-brown leaves dripping like beggar’s rags from their old man branches. It’s October – spring here, fall on the other side of the sphere. By November the first green shoots push through last year’s corpses; the elderly dog has a new prance in her step. And finally, in December, the trees burst into their brief heyday… it’s too hot to walk the dog.

And on to March, and autumn. Fall, as they call it up-top. Now, finally, the pinoaks have their late splendor, red-gold like kings at a coronation, now they burn and dazzle…and then they wither again, preparing for snows that never fall, and neither do they.

Perhaps I’m a pinoak. Blooming too late, a long fade into obscurity. Never learning what to let go, and when.

I’ve been wondering for a while if I should stop writing, being a writer. After all, there’s the garden to be tended, the children to be worried about – the books to be read! Other people’s books, so much finer than mine will ever be. Maybe like the pinoaks I had my summer, so fast I barely noticed it, and on to winter without a pause, browning off into old age. Writing – sometimes I feel I can’t do it, like someone who dreams of being an actress and ends up serving coffee in the studio cafeteria. What’s the use of writing, when you can’t write – and if I can’t write, what’s the use of me?

But then I finish the heavy thriller I’ve been working on – writing, not reading – and autumn in all its blazing enthusiasm rushes upon me. Ideas for novels hang fire on my limbs – daring, bold ideas that I must make real now or else I’ll be afraid of them. I’m in the mood to finish things I started years ago in my bleak spring and hazy summer, I’m in the mood for things that trip and bounce off my pen, I’m in the mood to be serious – what the heck don’t care if you like it or hate it serious – I’m in the mood to burn you right up!

But I must be quick. Winter is coming.

Barbara Kingsolver gets up at 4am to pen her bestsellers. J.K.Rowling wrote hers while juggling a takeaway coffee and an infant. Countless aspiring writers set themselves targets of 2000 – or 10000 – words a day, and join NaNoWriMo to prove it.

But insofar as I can call myself a Real Writer (and that’s a whole other discussion) I find that life beckons. Sometimes it does more than that – it screeches HAROLD!!! HAROLD!!!

I find myself thinking, is there any more intrinsic value in writing than in, say, lying in the sun listening to the birds? Is it really so important to get out of bed right now? Don’t my children need me more than my readers do? I happen to live on acreage, so there’s things to be sprayed, netted, fenced, chopped…. And of course, there’s Facebook (though that’ s not a huge temptation – does anyone else find FB…yawn…really boring?).

For me, it all hinges on whether I’ve got anything to say. To paraphrase what everyone’s mum told them, “When you haven’t got anything meaningful to say, shut the fuck up!’ And yet….and yet…