While I was waiting for them to bake, I wandered around the garden looking for the last few signs of autumn. There's not much left now, and I'll miss all the reds and oranges during the next three or four months of unrelenting, leafless muddy, grey bleakness that is an English winter.
So I've been reading instead. I've been enjoying revolutionary France. With coffee and blueberry muffins of course.
I started with Sally Gardner's Red Necklace and moved on to Andrew Miller's (Costa winning) Pure, which was, of course, more learned, more evocative, more multi-faceted, but...somehow or other I still preferred the (admittedly quite silly in places) Red Necklace. I suppose that's why I was attempting to write for young adults myself - I'm prepared to overlook occasional preposterousness if a book also has dwarves, gypsy magic and mind-reading magicians. And to be honest, there were one or two bedtimes when I wasn't as much in the mood for corpses, rapists, and corpse-raping-murderers as Andrew Miller might have wished!
Now though, I'm deep into Laini Taylor's sequel to Daughter of Smoke and Bone, which also has plenty of revolutionary exploits and leaves every other book standing for preposterousness. And originality. And general brilliance. It's one of those I can't get through quickly enough - even though I know I'll regret going so fast when it's over...