I'm guessing they came to this site via the link on the credits page at the BBC Teens site.

This takes me back to when I used to work there as staff a few years ago. Every day we'd get at least one email in the site inbox simply saying,

F**** off.

That's nice isn't it?

Others would be informing us of the people the writer believed had homosexual tendencies,

*insert name of person you don't like*  is gay!!!,

they would tell us, which was good to know.

Another popular choice was to inform us of the dimensions of certain parts of their (massive) or someone they didn't like’s (minute) anatomy.

It all had me in stitches at first. But after about two years it got a bit tiresome.

I was a bit wary about emailing back. I was worried she might want me to make some kind of commitment, which I don't think I want to do just yet. But I explained that the novel isn't finished and she just replied saying I could send her some pages when I'm happy with it. What a nice lady. She has fair made my day.

I wasn't sure whether to post about this. I don't want you to think I'm a big show-off or anything. It's just that I've read so much on the net about how it's almost impossible for new writers to get an agent and that, in the unlikely event that you do get one, you have to sacrfice your first-born, chop off your head with a butter knife, and name your goldfish after them before they'll even return your phone calls. But I don't think that's quite the case. It's not what I've found so far anyway.

My fellow new novelists, take heart, I believe there is hope.

He didn't say hello in a nice friendly way, like Gary Lineker or Jon Bon Jovi would say hello. No. He said it in a sleazy-perv way like Bruce Forsythe or Paul Danan would say it. "Hel-lo". His friends chuckled.

The railings belong to the school where my boyfriend is a teacher, so my annoyance  was eased by the possibility that I could dob him in to his boss. I needed more ammunition than a hello to get the grubby old git into trouble though. I stopped and looked him in the eye.  

Nothing. He just stood there agape. I realised that I had inadvertently given him the Stare-of-Silence. My mum was a teacher, so I have inherited this ability. Those of us who are gifted with the Stare-of-Silence all know it should be used sparingly and wisely. Today, I made a mistake.

"Sorry," said the man eventually and lowered his eyes back to the rail he was painting.

I continued home feeling annoyed and disappointed - almost wishing I couldn't do the Stare-of-Silence at all. 'Perhaps I could pop around to my friend's house and borrow her nurse's uniform and walk by him again later?' I thought.

But then it occurred to me that I had already won.

Germain Greer, eat your heart out.

...Or come over to mine and have some blackberry crumble. I made enough this afternoon to feed an army. It is delicious. The secret ingredient is victory.

Told you I have issues.

I'd better stop saying that actually, at least for a while. My arms got scratched to ribbons by the brambles and, although, I've made it no secret that I've been pretty frustrated with myself recently, I don't want people thinking I've become a fervent self-harmer.

I'm feeling pretty good about the book at the moment. The frustration is coming from me wishing I could get more done and move forward a bit faster, but I suspect that might be part of what is slowing me up. I should chill.

I have plenty to be happy about today, not least because my humble blog got a mention on the mighty mecca of bloggery that is Grumpy Old Bookman yesterday. And also because I have some lovely juicy ripe blackberries. What more could a person want? I want for nothing more. Except maybe a nice blackberry-intensive recipe if anyone has one.

I have even done some writing. But I don't think I want to use any of it. I'm still experimenting with the new narrator (and may even decide to stick with the original style), so I don't really know how many words I've got that I’ll be using. So I think the word count I said I'd start keeping on here will have to begin once I've got into a rhythm.

Worth a look:
My lovely friend Siobhan Curham has a great down-to-earth, humorous style in her writing. She's working on her forth novel right now, which sounds like corker. Her characters are so alive they've even started their own blog. Spooky.

I was 99% sure I wouldn’t get on it, because I knew the work I sent in wasn't ready for showing. But I only heard about it two days before the closing date and I let someone persuade me to send it in anyway. There is always part of you that hopes when you do this kind of thing though isn't there? So I was a bit glum after I read the Letter-of-Poop.

I wrote a quiz testing intuition today – I must listen to my own more.

Apart from the fact that it cost me £15 to enter (which I could have had a shopping spree in Primark with), I am now finding it somewhat difficult to maintain my niggling suspiscion that I am an undiscovered genius of a writer.

On the other hand, it's one less thing on mind and maybe having lower expectations of myself will help me stop with this stupid procrastination I’ve been engaging in lately. After a superb weekend visiting a lovely and inspiring writerly friend, sorting out my desk today, and setting myself some goals and a work schedule, I am now ready to rock with the rewrite.

I have noticed that some novelists post a count of how many words they've notched up on their blogs. Amanda Mann and Kate Harrison both do this, and their blogs really inspire me, so I am going to start doing the same. Swing by this way tomorrow and be amazed at how little a person can do in a day.

We're having a barbecue on it next week, so that will be nice.

I should probably point out that it is that colour because the grass has died and turned  yellowy. Not because I have become so obsessed with feeding bananas to the foxes that I have covered the entire lawn with them. The foxes are not digging to escape because they trapped by all the bananas. They are doing it because, um, that is what dog-like animals do I suppose.

They're usually either burying or digging something up though aren't they? I wonder what they've got down there...?

Some nice glacier mints or lovely assorted cream biscuits I expect.