I love cats. I love their beautiful faces and ickle tickly tums. I have been owned by many cats, but now only a visiting ginger tom declares possession of me. I don't read my books to him, because he's into mice and sardines in tomato sauce, not spooks and crooks and flukes of nature, or even unnature such as the mighty Gargoyle or the dreadful creeping creature which is Something Watching. My proudest book, of course, is Why Weeps the Brogan? Which won the Children's Whitbread in 1989 and was shortlisted for the McVitie Prize. The Haunted Sand was shortlisted for something, but I can't remember what; it came second to a book that wasn't too bad, I suppose. I love good English; I can't stand sloppy modern drip-speak innit? wot books 'ave as written language, and which supposedly reflects the way kids spea. I don't mind a bit of rebellion in language, but dumb brainless Me am de man is pure stupidity and totally rebarbative in a language which has hundreds of thousands of words which cretins are too lazy to look up and use with clarity and power. To all the worm-brains who think bad spelling, ignorance and foul words make them better than other people, I say buy a dictionary.
Current events and projects
I talk to schools and writing groups about how to write.