I've been away for the week, tutoring at Arvon - good fun, as usual; though I'm glad to be home. It was a nice bunch of writers who were more than usually realistic about the process. But it remains hard to convince people that, while novel-writing can be learned, it can't really be taught. You criticise an individual's work and they ask for a solution. Reasonable enough, but the only solution that can ever be found is in applying the seat of their pants to the seat of a chair for another few hours, days, weeks, months ...

I think the thing I find most consistently surprising is that someone who's typically  successful in their chosen field should feel such an itch to write. As they plugged me for tips to publication, perhaps I should have plugged them for tips to a new career in the law or PR or whatever. Perhaps I should have invited one and all to a book launch or two so they could sample the true taste of literary success - bad white wine and cheesy puffs.

One writer told me how confident I seemed. I think he meant it as a compliment, but I couldn't help thinking it was a funny thing to say. I mean, if someone comes round to mend your fridge and tells you what's wrong with it and what needs to be done to fix it, you're unlikely to say, 'Wow! You seem pretty sure of yourself.' Today, The Times published my review of Barbara Kingsolver's new novel, The Lacuna. Reading such a novel certainly dents my armour. I aspire to write as well as that, but don't suppose I will.