No, not Chinese gangsters: sets of three.

Storytelling, at least in western culture, does love its sets of three. It's something I'm currently up to my eyeballs in as a reader, thanks to Ciaran Carson's excellent translation of selected Irish legends from the Tain (that Cu Chulainn, what a little tyke he was).

I like triads outside literature too, due to having a problem with binary choices. Give me two things to chose between, or a pair of facts to remember, and you'll be out of luck; make it three and you might be OK.

In my writing, I seem to latch onto triads without thinking about it. Currently, in Bringer of Light, I've got two main plot threads. In one there are two sets of three, both variations on two parents plus a child, though in fact neither set consists entirely of blood relations. The other thread features a more unusual triad that was set up previously and should be with us for a while: the reckless crusader, the loveable fool and tortured mystic. At least that's how I see them; readers are free to differ, of course.

In an ideal world, an author should be able to check all of these:

1. Space to write.  Kitchen tables are common, as are laps. Whatever your lifestyle there needs to be somewhere, even somewhere you carry with you, that’s a writing place.

2. Time to write. This one can be hard, because the rest of your life will get in the way. But it’s worth making the effort, even if it’s only a few hours a week.

3. Another source of income. I’ve always liked the phrase ‘independently wealthy’; it’s something I aspire to. In the meantime, there’s day-jobs, which do at least get you out the house, as well as allowing you to eat every week.

4. An understanding partner (and/or children/cats). Whoever shares a writer's life needs to be aware that living with a writer is a bit like living with an alien: they’ll be unfathomable yet fascinating, wild yet rewarding; and they don’t see the world the way you do.

Amazingly, I just about manage everything on the list, most of the time. I’m aware that I’m lucky in this.

In other news: Eastercon program updates mean that the panel on ‘What makes a feminist heroine?’ is now at 3pm on Sunday. When not on panels or in the bar, I’m likely to be hanging around in the dealer's room, acting as a body double stall sitter for a Guest of Honour. I’ll have hardbacks for signing, and other writers will also be in the vicinity at various times helping to staff Ms Williams occult emporium. Do drop in.

I enjoyed my Cornish break, containing as it did many fine ingredients, including scenic walks, cream teas, storm-lashed seas breaking over rocks (visible from our cottage, even), scrumpy and (most surprisingly of all) sunshine. 

My original plan of a week of long lie-ins fell prey to some early-morning bouts of inspiration, but that gave us more time to do stuff during the day. All the actual writing was for Bringer of Light, as were various conversations with Beloved, who’s very good at untangling my plots, and pointing out holes in same.

However, I also had several synchronous moments related to a novella I’ve written but which awaits revision. It has the working title ‘Dying of the Light’ and is a near-future piece set in ‘my’ universe which features a spark-gap transmitter. My initial research was restricted to t’internet and some light brain-picking of engineers from my ex-day-job. Our cottage was one cove along from Poldhu and we could see the Marconi monument on its lonely cliff-top from our window, so of course we had to walk over to it (well, down and back up – this is a very craggy bit of coast). We found the associated museum staffed by aged but helpful amateur radio enthusiasts who were only too happy to help me out, and were very forgiving of my lack of technical knowledge. In an amazing piece of synchronicity, the club’s president, a lovely chap called George (94 years young) turns out to be one of the last people alive who has actually operated a spark-gap transmitter. He also solved a technical problem I had: the answer, apparently, was to use a microwave oven.

In other news, Consorts of Heaven has been long-listed for both the British Fantasy and Clarke Awards. I don't expect to be short-listed for either (just check out the other books to see why) but I am very pleased to make the long-lists.

Authors often speak of the satisfaction of finding the right word. What we're less interesting in discussing is the corresponding sense of frustration when the right word eludes us. I'm not sure whether this search is any harder for me than for anyone else, as it's not exactly easy to test. I do know it happens to me sometimes in speech, especially when I'm stressed. I think my occasional mild aphasia might be hereditary, though in my mother it actually manifests as malapropisms: hence her references to the 'stigmata of a flower', 'going for a breast monogram' and breaking the heel of her shoe in King's Cross tube station whilst 'going up the alligator'. I also know that my inability to find the word I want can combine with my dislike of writing first draft to paralyse me. I can waste precious minutes staring up through the garret skylight (is the word up there in the clouds? No it is not, Jaine) or leafing through my thesaurus, by which time whatever came after that damn elusive word has leaked out of my brain.

One of the lessons I'm still learning is when to let myself make do with the wrong word. When the only word I can find is so far off the mark it makes me cringe, I put it (or the phrase I want to express as a single word) into square brackets; that way at rewrite time if I'm not paying attention – which I should be, but mistakes will always slip past – then I've something to remind me to deal with the problem. I don't always find exactly the right word even when I come back to the text, but I think I nail most of the suckers eventually. The important thing is that I haven't let the search for a single uncooperative word put a stop to the rest of them.

Parish notices: firstly, I'm away in the wilds of the West Country for a week from tomorrow, and if, as I suspect, it's so wild that there's no net access, not much will occur here (including approving any comments, for which I apologise in advance). Secondly, you lucky people have another chance to attend Liz Williams' excellent genre writing course, this time in London, on 20th and 21st March.

Where do you get your ideas from? (check one or more – well you could if this blog editor let me do check boxes)

1) New Scientist

2) Tesco’s

3) My partner

4) The bits of my brain not being used for anything else

5) Everywhere

6) ‘Every night I leave milk and cookies out, and in the morning they’re gone and there’s an idea’ (courtesy of Mr I Asimov)

7) Don’t ask me, I only work here

It's pretty light this year, owing to not getting myself put down as a program participant when I registered (not deliberately - I had a hangover).

Friday 7pm, Winchester Room - 'Gender in Space Opera'

Saturday noon, hotel lobby - part of massed author signing ('will sign (some) body-parts for beer!')

Sunday 5pm, Winchester Room again - 'What Makes a Feminist Heroine?'

Points of note: 2 out of 3 on 'the usual', but at least I've avoided any morning slots. Also: the same room twice means I might actually be able to find it the second time, though knowing the Raddled Non-Euclidean, I'm not assuming anything.

That was quite a week. The Orion party was as glam as ever, though also as hectic as ever with lots of ‘hullo, must chat later’ moments. My talk at PSiFA was well-received and led to interesting discussions, although being back at my old Uni after all this time was a bit surreal: everything was the same … only different. And then there was Picocon, which deserves a paragraph of its own.

Picocon is a small but perfectly formed convention which I really wish I’d discovered before. As a first Guest of Honour gig, it couldn’t be better. Being student run there’s a friendly, slightly chaotic atmosphere, with a distinct emphasis on fun. I have been to a fair few cons but this is the first one where I’ve seen a tacky Star Wars transformer figure dipped in liquid nitrogen and smashed with a sledgehammer, or stood aside so that two (technically) grown men wielding sea-bass could settle some long-lost point of honour in a trial by fish. I also got to prove my complete inability to play ‘Just a minute’, though I was robbed in the final round of ‘Mornington Crescent’, as I had the perfect strategy worked out, which the damn Terminators saw thru, curse them. The con were even kind enough to provide me with my own minion gofer, who looked after my every need, and to whom I drunkenly confided the secrets of the (well my) universe at the post-con meal. I’m sure she won’t remember …

I currently feel pleasantly drowned in all the non-writing excitement that can go with being an author. But now it’s time to head back up to t’garret