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Re-reading for inspiration and buying a new bike!

Today I went to collect a new bicycle. I love that word, bicycle, immediately conjures up a bell and a basket, and my bicycle has both. It isn't like me at all to make a big purchase just like that but I'd been struggling with the depression the past few days and decided that I needed to do more, have a new focus, and then 'bing', cycling came to mind, it would get me out and about more, and save me jumping on the tube. And yes, it has served to cheer me up somewhat, even though I told myself I couldn't afford it. Anyway. It's there, by the front door, waiting to be taken out for a long stretch of open, quiet, road, and so I'm going to give myself Saturday off (I will still take a book/notebook/pen etc), away from the computer screen, in front of which many of my frustrations have been building, and maybe go cycle around Richmond Park, or even take the route to Hampton Palace. I'm also glad to say that, last night I managed about 300 words of a new opening of the Victorian novel. I was inspired by John Fowles, The French Lieutenant's Woman, an old favourite. I re-read the first couple of chapters and the narrator as ironical, detatched modern day presence took hold and I returned to my writing feeling less burdened by trying to get the voice of Mary Burns (which I still don't 'hear') or trying to get the voice of the nineteenth century, whatever that may be, but just to bloody well write the thing with the feelings I feel, as a writer, because I needed to be reminded that I was writing this and I'm not the omniscient god figure overlooking this, but the narrator whose feelings are, actually, quite strongly bound up with this woman's story. So, it's a small, different step in another direction, so, we'll see.

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Who was Mary Burns?

On 7th January 1863 Mary Burns was found dead from a suspected heart attack. She was 43 years old. Since her death Mary has received barely any attention despite the fact that she spent over twenty years as the common-law wife of Friedrich Engels, one of the world’s most influential thinkers and the co-founder of Marxism.

Born in 1822, Mary was the oldest surviving child of textile dyer and factory operative, Michael Burns, and Mary Conroy, Irish immigrants from Tipperary. Mary’s parents had married at St. Patrick’s in an area known casually as Irish Town, one of few Catholic churches in Manchester at that time. The year of Mary’s birth and her infancy were significant in that Manchester was still dealing with the aftermath of the event that became known as the 1819 Peterloo Massacre, a peaceful protest of the working-classes on the site of St. Peter’s Fields in which several people were killed and hundreds injured. The Massacre occurred when magistrates, alarmed at the size of t…

My PhD critical paper

I thought I'd upload the critical element of my PhD thesis. Hopefully, for those who are interested enough to read it, it will make sense despite the references to my creative work, which I can't upload as I'm seeking publication. And besides, at 68,000 words...

I'm also going to tweak section one of this three section critical paper with a view to journal publication because of the academic interest in the claims I make of Mary.

-Dedicated with love and respect to Dr Bruce Lloyd-

And in memory of my parents:
Thomas Valentine and Joan Theresa
Good people who taught me so much more than they realised


The biggest thank-you is due to Norma Clarke, Professor of English Literature and Creative Writing at Kingston University, who supervised this PhD. I never had cause to doubt my initial instincts as Norma proved to be the best mentor I could ever have wished for.

I would also like to acknowledge the generous studentship that I was fortunate to be awarded by Kingston Universi…

Booker Shortlist announced

It's been a while... I know. Dog walking on the Downs, a bit of theatre, a bit of baking, a bit of writing etcetera etcetera. I also managed to read two complete books in the past month, which I was so pleased about. I had not read a whole book for about a year. The first was A Lie About My Father by Scottish poet/writer, John Burnside; a very well written memoir about father and son, but like all memoirs, some unreliability I felt. Poignant and tragic in equal measure. Then my husband returned from Cyprus (too hot for me this time of year, I can barely cope with England!) with Sebastian Faulks's Birdsong. He loved it. And then I read it and also loved it. I had originally picked it up several years ago but didn't get beyond Amiens, where the first section is set, but was really glad I did this time around. Another incredibly well written book in the style of a good Victorian! I felt a bit unsure about bits of Elizabeth, in the later section, but I have never learnt so muc…