Weeks 34 & 35 - Dodging the Draft to the Lighter Side of Life

I’m still scratching.

After deciding that a week away would be just the thing to clear my mind and recharge the writing batteries, I settled on the Cairngorms. What could be better than a week of isolation to forget all about the pressures of deadlines, second drafts and all the other assorted madness of daily life?

The Scottish mountain range – now a national park – certainly didn’t disappoint; but there was just one problem. Even though I had left my laptop and all my papers behind, try as I might, my novel had somehow hitched a ride on my consciousness and had followed me all the way up the A9 to spend the week with me.

Like President Clinton, although I thought I had successfully avoided the draft, it kept coming back to haunt me.

There I was, surrounded by beautiful scenery, the sound of spring birdsong and midges the size of oranges and what kept popping into my head? Was my murderer giving themself away by doing this or should they do that? Is Chapter Two too long; why am I no nearer coming up with a title?..

What my week surrounded by heather did (that’s heather with a small “h”, just in case you’re wondering), was make me realise the extent to which writing a novel takes over your subconscious. Like the midges, however much you try to pretend they’re not feasting on your Sassenach blood, they’re always waiting for their next slurp of O Positive.

Not that I should complain. After all what’s the alternative? No ideas…no sudden inspiration for a new character…no new plot strands that demand attention with all the subtly of a Capercaillie lek?

I’ll take the midges anytime.

As, I am sure, would have Peter Harvey – Sheffield journalist and author – the news of whose death greeted me on my return from north of the border.

For years Peter wrote a column six days a week in the Morning Telegraph and even in retirement, he still managed to file a weekly piece. A family friend, Peter was the embodiment of a writer who produced the goods time after time.

Unlike the midges, he will be missed.