It Was The Laughter Of Birthdays, Of

I Wrote My First Short Story For A Competition And Won Second Prize. Another Competition Came Up And I Won First Prize. The First Story Was Published In A Newspaper. The Second Went Out On Radio.

From This Height The Sleeping City Seems Like A Child's Construction, A Model Which Has Refused To Be Constrained By Imagination. The Volcanic Plug Might Be Black Plasticine, The Castle Balanced Solidly Atop It A Skewed Rendition Of Crenellated Building Bricks. The Orange Street Lamps Are Crumpled Toffee-wrappers Glued To Lollipop Sticks.

Rebus Was Eating Breakfast In The Canteen And Wishing There Was More Caffeine In The Coffee, Or More Coffee In The Coffee Come To That.

A Lot Of Writers, Especially Crime Writers, Have An Image That We Think We're Trying To Keep Up With. You've Got To Be Seen As Dark And Slightly Dangerous. But I'm Not Like That And I've Realised That I Don't Need To Put That On. People Will Buy The Books Whether They See A Photo Of You Dressed In Black Or Not.

It Seemed To Him A Very Edinburgh Thing. Welcoming, But Not Very.