I am in historical Edinburgh, in a historical building that used to house Edinburgh University's Veterinary School. I'm writing this in a rather handsome cafe, like a certain other writer in Edinburgh. That's where the similarities between us end.
This is the First Festival devoted entirely to Historical Fiction. It is is always nice to be invited to things and to be included with writers of books for adults but I'm here on Monday morning, so I'm guessing it will be some kind of school event. I don't know because I haven't seen the audience yet. You never quite know what to expect which makes it difficult to plan what say. It is a luxury for me to talk to adults seriously about what I do, about the craft of writing, about the process of writing historical fiction. Too often, writers for children and teenagers are regarded differently, at worst as entertainers, at best as being there to enthuse readers: 'Hey, kids! History can be fun!' I've planned for a bit of both. Years of experience have taught me to take a belt and braces approach.
Appearing at a Festival like this, is not as much fun as people think. If one tells friends that one is going to X, say, or Y, unless they are writers and know what it will be like, they think its kind of like a short holiday, time for sightseeing, a bit of shopping, or to take in the rest of the Festival, but it is often not like that at all. It is far more like a business trip. An overnight stay, do the event, go home. Trains, motorways, hotel rooms. I'm not complaining. Not at all. It's what I do and glad to do it. I just think its funny. But I suppose it is understandable. Writing isn't a like a real job, is it?
Stop press: just been told I'm not in the room it says in the Programme but somewhere else. Heart sinks little bit. How will whoever might be coming find me?
Outside my room there is a knitted tree. A good start, I think. My spirits lift.I like the knitted tree.
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Then someone asks me where my laptop is.
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