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ÌýWell, that's it, then - another year over. Or rather, another astronomical cycle finished. I'm still not sure why it is assumed that things will miraculously change because the earth is beginning another perambulation. The Ìýconservatives will still be money obsessed racists, landlords (some them) will still fleece their tenants, people will still turn to petty crime because they need money for food. And the various sections of society will continue to berate and blame the others.

I have recently experienced this on social media, where a fellow author I have known for some time (actually in Real Life, when we still did that) accused "your generation" of all the ills the Tory government had bestowed on us. It was incredibly and offensively personal and I was thoroughly shocked. I think by now my beliefs are fairly well known by my friends and followers, and I resent being tarred with the same brush as those who actually did vote the bastards into power. I know a lot people of my own advanced age, and none of us did, but of course, as my children tell me, social media - and real life friendship groups, come to that - are echo chambers. But this sort of mass blame strikes me as very similar to a racist attitude. And probably comes from those who assert, in a shocked voice "I'm not racist!" Yes, you know a couple of them, don't you?

And I'm still suffering from the inability of the publishing industry to stuff Mr Osman into the correct box - the one the rest of us traditional crime writers are in. As another fellow author said to me recently, "You've been doing exactly what he does for years." (He actually added "And Better" but I'd better not say that.) So as far as I'm concerned, this "New Year" is going to be nothing to write home about, just more, and probably worse, of the same.

I hope anyone reading this will feel more cheerful about things than I do, and if you're celebrating tonight, have a good one. If anyone is going to see those of my offspring who will be performing to "see the New Year in", you will have a good one, I can guarantee. And at some point in the next couple of months, this blog will undergo a transformation into a family report - you've guessed it - called Cookman Corner. Shameless promotion for all of us, of course. So see you then -OK?

ÌýThis week my doctor, trying to find out why I wasn't feeling quite the thing, discovered that my previously normal blood pressure had suddenly gone through the roof. The only other time this had happened wasn't when I was pregnant - four times, you may recall - but when, at the behest of my publisher of the time, I was attempting to write an erotic romance. I told her I couldn't do it, I didn't do romance at all, let alone the erotic stuff, but she was sure I could to enhance her successful erotic imprint. I started getting migraines. Bad ones. And guess what? High blood pressure. I didn't write the book.

This time, doctor and I concluded that the mix of medication I'm on didn't help and I was particularly stressed. More medication promised. Well, I'm not trying to write an erotic romance this time, but I am trying to write Libby Sarjeant Mystery number 26, to which I have previously referred in this blog. So far it has had two completely different incarnations and a third combining the two, and is proving the most difficult I've ever done. So - a lot of stress, especially as the damn thing's due to be delivered in December.Ìý

And then, this morning I read a post on the BBC Culture website talking about - and to - Richard Osman and Cosy crime. I refuse to put the link here, as I am incensed. According to this journalist, Osman has "revived" the genre, which, according to him, had been virtually moribund since Agatha Christie. This shows an appalling lack of research, and I cannot do better then to quote two opinions from readers, one of whom is a journalist himself.Ìý

Suzanne Barton said:ÌýI like what some of the people he talks about are saying about ‘cosyâ€� being a misnomer but he should definitely have spoken to some of the more experienced writers, rather than just the ‘celebritiesâ€�. The genre is not experiencing a ‘comebackâ€�, it hasÌýalways been there. There was a ‘golden ageâ€� but Ngaio Marsh wrote up until the 70’s and was succeeded by the likes of Ruth Rendell, Colin Dexter, PD James and yourself so crime writing has been around constantly since the 1920’s and even before (Wilkie Collins, GK Chesterton)

In my opinion yours are some of the best of the current detective novels! I hope that people will read this sort of article but perhaps use it as a springboard to investigate what else is out there and realise that there are lots of hardworking, experienced writers who write brilliant novels, mostly far more developed and character driven than the celebrities turned writer!
And Nick Campbell wrote:ÌýI’m just amazed that journalists can be so blind to the phenomenon of celebrity writers. Truly this is so patronising toward both authors and readers. And half his article is just regurgitating another journalist’s article from the Torygraph. Lazy nonsense.ÌýIt’s funny because the celebrity thing has done the rounds in children’s books for years without being properly examined and here we are again. And it’s not about the quality of those specific books, it’s just the laziness and banality when it comes to their being covered by journalists (and I include the BBC).
I don't think I can add anything better, do you? Thank you, Suzanne and Nick, for giving me permission to quote you.
Next - reviews. Now, I've had some lovely reviews, on and off Amazon, for the latest epic,ÌýmanyÌýof which praise me (she said modestly) for my inclusion of current issues plaguing society of today. But one, although saying that she/he likes my books and has all of them, criticises me for the same thing, emphasising the fact that they are - andÌýshouldÌýremain - "cosy". The review finishes: 'In the next book, please Ms Cookman, noÌýmore messages?'
That floored me. The message referred to is, indirectly, the motive for the murder, and murder is not "Cosy". Every murder has a motive, and they are all all deeply unpleasant, whether personal or society-wide. They are certainly not "Cosy". The epithet has a lot to answer for. I started writing my books before the word migrated here from the USA - I just wrote "murder mysteries". A genre which, according to at least two well respected agents at the time, one of whom became a friend much later on, was in complete decline. It wasn't. I was already reading books written in the 80s and 90s, some of whose authors are mentioned by Suzanne, above, and now, of course, there are thousands - and that isn't an exaggeration. This is why reviews and ratings on Amazon are so important, even if we deplore the fact. It all adds to the visibility of the books, which, hopefully means people buy them and I can eat for another few months. Slight deviation from the main theme, here, sorry.
In conclusion, I just wish the term "Cosy" could be banned. Not just as a description of murder mysteries, where it is a complete oxymoron, but from the language. Yes, it is bloody "twee", but our books aren't. Even Osman himself said that in an interview I heard on my favourite radio station - not BBC, incidentally.ÌýAnd Osman hasn't "revived" the genre, it was alive and well before he dived in, with his original seven figure advance. If anything, he has overshadowed us, the rest of those hard working authors who write for a living and for the love of the books.

ÌýThis is a blog post I wrote back in June 2020 - when we were inÌýthe thick of the the pandemic. As there were no comments recorded, I thought it would be safe to re-post it, if only to see how many people have seen and enjoyed those recommendations I made! Also, if there's anybody out there who doesn't know, book 24 in the Libby Sarjeant series is up for pre-orderÌý Ìýhere, and you will see a nice Canva banner at the top of the blog, made for me by Toby at Headline. Now - off we go. Three years ago, I wrote this:

I am going to make a recommendation. I write, and enjoy reading, lighter detective fiction. As I have documented elsewhere, my love of this genre came from being allowed to run riot amid my parents' books, many of which I still have. These included Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe series (and occasionally a Tecumseh Fox), John Dickson Carr/Carter Dickson - Gideon Fell and Sir Henry Merrivale - and Ngaio Marsh's Roderick Alleyn series. I re-read them all, and the Alleyn books from start to finish at least once every two years. On the way, there were other writers; Gladys Mitchell and Patricia Wentworth, to name two.

I was already a professional writer (features, PR, theatre) when I went back to school to do a Master's Degree in Creative Writing, a fairly new discipline at the time, and one I was already teaching at local authority level. Sadly, it didn't improve my knowledge of literature, which I had hoped, but it did introduce me to the woman who became my publisher. Again, well documented. We more-or-less started off together. As my final dissertation I submitted 20,000 words of a detective story which had first been conceived for the long departed World One Day Novel Cup. I had never seriously considered authorship as a career, although I had dabbled freely in the murky waters of Romance. Like many others, I had thought I could write a Mills and Boon romance, or Category Romance, as I learned to call them. Easy, I thought. Wrong!!! I came to realise how very, very clever these women, and the occasional man, were. I remained content to be friends with many of them, friendships I have maintained to this day. More of that later.

Meanwhile, as Hazel Cushion went on to become a fully fledged publisher, she asked me if there was any more of my dissertation, and if so, could she have it. And, could it be a series. Well, by this stage in my life I had expanded my reading habits and discovered, among other things, many writers writing in the same genre I had loved as a child. So there was a market for it, although received wisdom from the industry was, between much sucking of teeth, that there wasn't. We all know how that turned out.

And that market also extended to Television, exemplified by the hugely popular Midsomer Murders. I had read the original books - only seven of them - and even met Caroline Graham, the author, when we were both tutors on a Writers' Holiday. There have been other series in a similar vein, although none as long lasting. Father Brown might be heading the same way, but Rosemary and Thyme didn't last long. Shakespeare and Hathaway is a little more jokey/pastiche, but quite enjoyable if you suspend serious criticism. The Coroner didn't last long, either, although it should have done.

But I've found a new one! I suspect a lot of my readers discovered it before I did, but I'm terribly glad I did. It's been airing on UKTV Drama since 2017, and now I have all my streaming ducks in a row, I have been - I believe the term is "Binging" (!) - on it since the beginning of the series. It is a New Zealand small town detective series called The Brokenwood Mysteries, and has some very familiar elements. Lead detectives, of course, and recurring characters, often rather quirky ones. And very odd murder methods - remind you of anything? Anyway, that's my first recommendation.

My second refers to something more personal. You remember I mentioned retained friendships? Well, some of us go away "on retreat" each year, which I have written about before. Not this year, of course. Anyway, a few of them decided to release an anthology of shorts as a 2020 beach read. And to my surprise, they asked me to join them. Surprise, because they are all romance writers, and all have been, or still are, Mills and Boon authors. I really struggled with this, and failed miserably on the romance front, but I was edited by one of them, a particular friend, who brought me into line.Ìý
What I didn't know then, of course, was that a lot of my struggles were due to. illness - now happily resolved. So to finish this mainly nostalgic ramble,Ìýhere's the link to that lovely little book. Ìý

So there you are! Happy watching and reading.

ÌýFirst of all, let me apologise for the lack of newsletters since March, or if you are only a reader of the blog, sinceÌýlast October! This is partially explained by the absence in the family home of younger daughter Phillipa, who has gone to live in London and abandoned me and my newsletters. She has, however, sent me a narrated (by her) video of how to do it, so I'm saved. Secondly, due to my own desire to have two books out this year, I had to write another book in three months. I did it, so this year readers will be delighted by Murder in Autumn published on September 7th, and Murder By Christmas, funnily enough, in December. At least, I hope they'll be delighted.

After the vicissitudes of the past three years, life has been slowly returning to normal - or what passes here at Cookman Corner for normal. One of the things I've done over the past few months - when not writing - is to read several of my own books. This is not for the sheer joy of reading them, it's to remind myself of what has happened in the lives of Libby Sarjeant and her friends, and of some of the characters who have passed through Steeple Martin and Nethergate. Otherwise, I find myself giving the same name to a villain in one book and a new best friend in another.

And now, while having a week or so to re-group, I'm thinking about the one after next, which should appear in summer 2024, with a working title of Murder in Midsummer. Of course, the publishers may think that title too close to something else we're all familiar with, but we'll see!

See you next time,

Lesley

Hello folks!ÌýSorry it's been so long since I wrote, but there's been a fair amount of stuff going on here at Cookman Towers. After the publication of Murder After Midnight and the operation last September, I gradually improved in health and carried on writing Libby 23, Murder By Mistake, which I delivered on time in April. There has been somewhat of a wait to find out if I had another contract, but yes, I have. Three more books, the first one to be delivered by next May. However, fate was not done with me yet, and in August I was diagnosed with breast cancer. So, almost a year to the day after the previous op, I had another one!

The children - all now middle aged, or nearly, have been terrific. Phillipa and Louise have been taxi-ing me everywhere and Leo has shouldered the "Man of the House" burden willingly, while Miles has stepped in whenever asked. Philly and Leo are still resident here due to all sorts of circumstances, but for this, I'm very grateful. For instance: last year Leo came home with a new kitchen bin as a present - which I LOVE - and today he presented me with a knife block, and knives, obviously. This is because the entire famiy complain that I haven't got any decent knives. Admittdly, some of mine are inherited from the parents... Perhaps I wouldn't have liked them so much if they had been Christmas or birthday presents, though.

ÌýWell, now, here's a thing. Yesterday, after receiving the knife block from Leo, I had to call on his expertise when the spinning wheel of doom appeared while I was trying to do something in Word. Eventually, the whole laptop went into meltdown and I was gloomily contemplating the possible purchase of a new - well, refurbished - MacBook. However, after setting up my zoom meeting on my phone - who knew? - Leo confiscated said laptop, updated the operating system, which it had refused to let me do, cleared out all my hoarded junk and gave it back. I'm having to learn a lot of new things, as I navigate all the refreshed sites, but suddenly, I can do things I couldn't do before. There are unseen advantages in the dreadful state of the country forcing adult offspring to go home to mother. I can now carry on with the day job.

Anyway, I am now looking forward to the publication of Libby 23 in December and trying to write Libby 24. Also, there may be other changes - work wise - on the way, such as a new newsletter instead of this one - if I can make it work. So, until the next time -!

I posted this on Facebook today when sharing a piece in The Observer. Yes, it's political, and I try not to do political on my blog/newsletter, but just at the moment I am so incensed with everything going on around us, it is almost all I can think about. So here goes:

ÌýI know, I know. I keep posting pieces from The Guardian and The Observer - well, I'm loyal. I used to work for The Observer and my father worked for The Guardian. But they have columnists like Jack Monroe, who highlight the issues of which we should all be aware. This is shocking. And all too frequently, the empty shelves are blamed on the damaged supply chain (lorry drivers) and Brexit. And, of course, that is so often true. (Oh, yes it is.) But not always. I'm bloody lucky - without an income apart from my state pension (go on, try living on that) I write novels which have kept the wolf from the door for the last sixteen years. So I've got to keep on doing that, whether I like it or not, or I shall be in the same position as the elderly gentleman who ate his toothpaste for dinner - something quoted here by Jack. And being a novelist is actually quite hard work and very precarious - it is NOT, as so many people think, a sinecure. OK - I'll shut up now. Sunday rant over - nothing to see here...

And in reply to a comment:Ìý

Yes - that Jack! The original Boot Strap Cook! I've got a couple of her books as well as following her on Twitter and her blog. It really makes you wonder about the cretins supposedly in charge of us all - how have they NOT seen the food banks? The homeless? Because apparently, they haven't. Oh - and where, oh where are the charity depots to which I can give clothing for refugees and the homeless? Plenty of charity shops who will SELL my unwanted clothes, but none who will give them to people who actually NEED them. Actually, we do know some lovely people who will do just that, but they are private individuals, and of course, it appears that everything worthwhile IS down to private individuals these days. Sorry, Arabella. That led into my second Sunday rant... with plenty of capital letters.

ÌýCrappy old year, 2021. Coronavirus carried on restricting life for the general population - except for those in government, of course. We all said, last Christmas, "Oh, wait till next year! We'll make up for it!" And lo and behold - we couldn't.

Personally, I have had health issues and give way to no one in my admiration for the staff of the NHS. All my children have succumbed to Covid within the last month or so, but have kept me safe and continued to look after me. Christmas was even stranger than it was last year for everyone we know - all our local friends and family tested positive at some point, and ended up in isolation - my son Leo spent the whole period in his room upstairs, poor soul.

So, as someone on the radio said this morning - I shan't be welcoming the new year in, exactly, but making sure the old one is gone. With a bitof luck, I shall get back to work and the long delayed Libby 23 will see the light of day,

See you on the other side.

ÌýMorning, friends and relations. I wrote a post in June entitled Complaining about Covid and Agitating about Age and decided it was too moany for words. I'd had a few health problems since last September and my indefatigable GP was continuing to poke about to find out if there was an underlying cause. However, in that time, Libby 21, Murder on the Edge, had been published, and Libby 22 had been written - pandemics have little effect - physically - on the working life of the novelist. And, a week or so ago, Libby 22, Murder After Midnight, was published.

Ìý

The upshot of all of the GP's testing finally emerged. You've guessed it. So tomorrow, September 5th I go into King's College Hospital for an operation to remove my pancreas and spleen. Not the most convenient hospital for East Kent, especially as neither of my sons drive. (I know; odd, isn't it?) Both girls do, so I shall have my one visitor a day, I expect. I've told them not to bother, after all, I was in hospital for a week last September - almost to the day - and allowed no visitors at all. I survived.

We don't know what after care will be needed, chemo or radio therapy, but that, luckily, will be administered locally. I'm allowed to take my laptop as well as my Kindle and recently acquired iPhone (which I have trouble with), so I can keep up with the world, hopefully. I would like to pay tribute here to the incredible care and joined up thinking of the NHS, when it is beset by all the myriad problems of the pandemic - and the government.

And while I'm at it, my wonderful family. Leo has been forced into the role of primary carer, ably assisted by the other three, the girls in particular having acted as taxi drivers for all hospital and doctor visits, and there have been many. And friends, of course. The support of my writer friends with whom I Zoom almost every day has kept me relatively sane. Thank you Sophie Weston, Joanna Maitland, Louise Allen, Sarah Mallory, Liz Fielding and Janet Gover.

Oh - and thank heavens for technology! See you on the other side.

ÌýWell, here's the second blog.

Family and I managed to do Christmas - Lou, the grandchildren and her partner stayed in their house with her partner's father, I stayed in my house with the other three, Miles, Phillips and Leo. We had all the traditional food, and did New Year's Eve, too, with Haggis and bashed Neeps.

Now, the decorations are down, and I am endeavouring to write Libby 22. Our friend Lee has re-done my website - which my publisher says is elegant - and I have received the Dreaded Email telling me I am Extremely Clinically Vulnerable. Doesn't make a lot of difference, as I've been staying indoors since last March. I have alo bought rather a lot of joggers, and Lou bought me the lovliest warm jacket for Christmas. Phillipa bought me a DustBuster, and Leo bought me the Rupert Annual. Miles bought me the Victoria Wood biography. A mixed bag.

That's it, then. Happy days - and I hope everyone has the best New Year they can possibly have.

Everybody's had it tough this year. I know of at least one family in my own small circle who are all in hospital as I write. Many people are far worse off than we are. I, at least have been able to work, although my children haven't - mostly. I rail ineffectually against the government for its mismanagement, but at least I'm in my own home and we have enough to eat. I really Ìýought to count my blessings ever day, but it's difficult, sometimes. So here's our story of 2020.

On the 4th October, it was exactly a year since my younger daughter received her breast cancer diagnosis. We reflected on the year so far and wondered what would happen next.

Phillipa couldn't work from that point on, as she was no longer able to go off on cruises. She was able to do a few gigs, but not enough to keep her, so lost the flat she was going to move in to. So she stayed with me. Her treatment was shared between out local hospitals, anyway, so it was all for the best. Her sister performed all the chauffeuring (is that a word?) duties and her brother and I looked after her at home. After her operation (successful) her radiography started - every day except Christmas Day and Boxing Day, until the end of January. Talking to her occasional duo partner, they decided to see if their cruise line needed anyone - and they did! For exactly a month - February. And when they got back - what happened?

Suddenly, all my children were out of work. All gigs stopped and only the odd one has cropped up. Meanwhile, over last winter, my publisher sold out to one of the Big Boys, just as I was having a book released. I worried. Oh, boy, how I worried. This is my day job, and now, not only I, but two of my offspring were relying on it, and Big Boys are not quite as forbearing as independent publishers. So there we were, over winter, with one daughter in the grip of something rather nasty and me terrified I was going to lose my job.

However, a few good things have happened. First, Phillipa recovered beautifully. Then, I got my agent, who sorted out the publishers, with whom I have got on like a house on fire ever since. The three older children all managed online gigs of sorts, while the youngest, Leo, had his first book published. Not a good time for that, of course. All events (signings, etc) were cancelled. My grandchildren have both started new schools during the last couple of weeks. And in October the 21st in the Libby Sarjeant series was released.

And both younger children have recorded albums. Phillipa's is of songs wot her dad wrote, and the first single released actually reached number one in the Country Chart. Leo's is of self penned songs and is already out. So we've all kept busy despite the pandemic.

Finally, I Got Ill. Actually spent a week in hospital. Diabetes related and I am still recovering. but thanks to the NHS I am still here. Like most other people who have recourse to their services, I am stunned and grateful to them. I had a rather nasty relapse (poor Leo suffered the brunt of that) but finally was released into the community with a whole battery of new medication.

And now my granddaughter is self isolating because someone in her class has become infected. Like many families, we will be separated for Christmas. The boys and I will be in my house, Lou and her family in hers, and goodness knows where Phillipa will be. ÌýLou has managed a couple of live streamed, socially distanced concerts. Miles has given us a few living room concerts and I've been hiding.

This blog is now part of my new website, and I started it back in October. Then came the nasty relapse and everything went on hold. I had hoped to make it a cheery, hopeful post, but with the world as it is - rising Covid numbers and Blasted Brexit on the horizon, all under a government who don't appear to know how to govern a classroom, let alone a country, that was a vain hope. So we keep on keeping on. I'm trying to write Libby 22, and not succeeding very well, but I will keep going.

Have as Happy a Christmas as you can, people, and here's hoping 2021 turns out better than 2020.