4 August 2003
Jean quite correctly observes that the Poet Laureate of whom I was thinking was Alfred Austin. I told you I was ill. Anselm Audley is a fantasy writer whom I would not choose to promote in this weblog, simply because he is the extreme example of a fashion I disapprove of thoroughly, viz the signing up and publishing of writers whose literary voices have not yet broken, just because the young are so promotable. In his case he was seventeen, and he was commissioned to write a trilogy. Takes three years at least to write a trilogy, and consistency is essential; if you want to tell me that a writer's voice will not change radically between the ages of seventeen and twenty, then something has gone severely wrong with that writer's development.
But never mind that. It's been a long hot sunny day, and one of my Hungarian hot wax chillies has gone from acid green to orange, all by itself and all at once. I'm chuffed.
© Chaz Brenchley 2003
Reproduced here by permission of Chaz Brenchley, who asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.