Sockpuppetry

I don't entirely get the point of the current fuss about Stephen Leather and his "sockpuppets".
This story has been much discussed by writers since the crime writer  Leather admitted, on stage, to creating online fake identities to promote, talk about, and praise his own books. He even admitted to arranging discussions between these different personas to make the whole thing look a little more genuine.
Leaving aside the other accusations made against Leather (who, by the way, I've never met) I don't really see what's so dreadful about lying on line. It's an extension of what nearly everyone does: we use pseudonyms, invent false birthdays, give invented addresses, tick a box confirming that we have read the small print though we haven't even glanced at it.............and who has never contributed mendacious praise about  a friend's  new book? I love the virtual world but don't trust it, and  believe what I read only when a real person has published it  using his or her own real name.
Please tell me if I'm wrong - but also tell me why!

Lit Fest

If you want to talk, or  hear me talking,  about The Fifties Mystique, do come along to the Penzance Literary Festival this  Friday, 27 July, when I'll be doing just that in Trevelyan House, Chapel Street, at 2 o'clock.

Sight and Sound

Nothing to do with the 1950s  or feminism- but
I can't resist posting about Deborah Warner's "Peace Camp" which is going
 to appear on Godrevy Island next weekend. You can read all about it here:
 http://www.peacecamp2012.com/locations/godrevy-head.aspx
It will be interesting to see Godrevy, which  has played a large part in my
 life, in this new guise.

Actual Murder

"Writing down lies" is what novelists are sometimes accused of doing. There's not much defence. "But we don't expect people to believe it's true" protested one of my crime writing colleagues, only to be told by another that that's exactly what she does want people to believe.

It's when the murderous imagination is confronted by reality that I have doubts about my  profession, and this week I have to confess that reading and writing fiction about untimely death has felt like a very improper occupation.

My husband's cousin, Perran Thomas,  serving  in Afghanistan, was one of three British soldiers who were  shot dead by an Afghan policeman. Suddenly those familiar scenes, the huge aeroplane, the flag draped coffin, the Last Post, ceased to be a familiar ritual on the six o'clock news, and became a personal human tragedy - the precise opposite of  Good Copy.

Next book?

We're invited to a Cornish version of the Buckingham Palace garden parties: the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall instead of the Queen and Prince Philip and  800 guests instead of 4000. It  takes place at Trewithen, one of Cornwall's most gorgeous gardens,  a local silver band plays and  pretty pavilion-like tents stand round the edge of the huge lawn. It would be perfection BUT - it's been raining for weeks, the ground is waterlogged or at least muddy and the forecast is dire. Frantic last minute changes: a different car park because the real one is  liquid under foot; different clothes - lots of women  have  gum boots or trainers on their feet and huge wedding hats on their heads, the whole ensemble topped by enormous umbrellas,   a sensible if not conventional look. When the royal party appear promptly on the dot, the Duchess and her lady-in-waiting are  equally unpredictably dressed in  buttoned-up Burberries.
              This isn't as irrelevant to my books as you might be thinking, because it turns out that the Duchess of Cornwall is a voracious reader and loves crime fiction. She's gobbled up the Scandinavians, is enjoying the Germans and Spanish and Italians and we have a little moment about detection in Venice, Florence and Sicily before she moves on.
               Royalty, crime stories, a silver band, tea and iced cakes and a lot of mud - it's an unlikely, even a surreal  combination. Perhaps there's a plot in it.
             

Contrasts

I spent last week in a different world. At home in Cornwall, it's cold and  "the rain it raineth every day" - and has done for months. On holiday in Corfu, the sky was cloudless for a whole week, and on the day we left the temperature was edging up to the high 90s (fahrenheit).The island seemed as beautiful and peaceful as always, without evidence of unrest or political trouble - except for the fact that there were half the usual number of tourists.We would have enjoyed the relative emptiness if it wasn't so obvious that the Corfiotes need their visitors - or rather, need their money.
My friend Joanna Hodgkin was on the island at the same time and kindly let me accompany her when she spoke about her new book to Durrell enthusiasts. Books by  Lawrence Durrell, the first husband of Joanna's mother Nancy, and his brother Gerald Durrell, have attracted many visitors to Corfu and there was a good turn out to listen to Jo.
That aside, for  seven days we forgot "real life" - though my one reminder of it was very welcome - a kind review of The Fifties Mystique, published in The Jewish Chronicle,  by Rabbi and Life Peer Julia Neuberger.
http://www.thejc.com/arts/books/69150/fifties-nostalgia-rose-coloured-amnesia

An unexpected compliment:

THE WEEK Magazine’s books of the week  page in the edition of 16th June – with The Fifties Mystique  as one of them!