I receive regular emails from readers of my books, which is a delightful experience, and I always try to reply. But sometimes what they ask for is not very practical. I have had the 'I have this assignment from school on light, will you write it for me?' type of email, for instance. To these I very gently point out that they can find out the information here and here , but it's up to them. I also get emails and letters asking me to explain something in one of my books in a different way or in more detail. These I feel more sympathy for - at least part of me thinks that this implies that I didn't get it right the first time. If it's a quick query, I will do my best to answer it - but if it implies re-packaging the material of a whole chapter, say, I'm afraid I do give a fairly unhelpful answer. I recently had one of these emails about a book I wrote 5 years ago, basically saying I don't get chapter 13 and 14 and as I like to understand each chapter as I go, c

Over on that excellent forum for writers, Litopia , there is often discussion of how difficult it is to get an agent. Sometimes, it seems almost like a hunt for a dangerous wild beast - trying to capture this most elusive and powerful creature. And I don't want to underplay the importance of a good agent. They are an author's best friend and fiercest critic. They pursue your business interests with the publisher, while privately telling you exactly what's wrong with your new book idea. More than one of my agent's clients dread his verbal feedback more than a visit to the dentist - but recognize it as equally valuable. However, it's well to remember that getting an agent isn't an end in itself. I know writers who have got an agent and still not got published. Even with the best agent in the world it's possible to have a project that you know is brilliant - and your agent knows is brilliant - and still not manage to convince a publisher to invest in it. I hate

I am, on the whole, a 'live and let live' kind of person. But this weekend the Post Office managed to turn me briefly into a Jeremy Clarkson clone. (For non-UK readers, Jeremy Clarkson is a broadcaster on the popular British car show Top Gear , famed for ranting on about anything and everything, for having a viewpoint slightly to the right of the typical fascist dictator, and for getting up everyone's nose, while still managing to be highly entertaining.) I had a piece of urgent post to get into the mail, so rather than pop it in the village postbox, I drove over to the Swindon sorting office. It was 2pm on Saturday. Plenty of time, I thought, for my letter to arrive promptly in the mail on Monday morning. After all, on a weekday I can post something in the village at 4.30pm and have it arrive next morning - here I was sticking the envelope straight into the mighty sorting machinery. But when I arrived, the helpful 'last posting' notice told me that the latest I c

In a thick mental haze of heavy cold and cough that started neatly on Christmas Eve, I have come up with a hypothesis on teenagers' bedrooms. (Apologies to any purists, but 'an hypothesis' is outdated. 'An' with h-words was fine when the H wasn't pronounced, but not now.) Everyone know that such bedrooms are messy. It is a biological imperative. But the assumption has always been that it is the teenager that causes the mess. My hypothesis shifts the blame elsewhere. We have a little room with a conservatory tacked onto it, were teenagers can be tucked away in the daytime to avoid them scaring the horses etc. Generally speaking, despite being occupied by teenagers, it is quite tidy. However there is one exception. The couch is a sofa bed, and when we occasionally, in a fit of generosity, allow the offspring to open up the bed to lounge around on, suddenly the place becomes a cross between a council rubbish tip, a laundry and an industrial kitchen washing up area.

For our traditional (well, we did it last year) pre-Christmas treat, my wife and I headed off to one of our nearest shopping towns, Marlborough in this morning's mizzle, with low cloud crowning the downs. This was partly to stock up on those little edible extras for the festivities, but mostly to indulge in a proper cooked breakfast at the Polly Tearooms. We're talking real fried potatoes here, none of your second rate hash browns. This is Breakfast with a capital 'B' and suitably hushed tones. This breakfast in the sense of 'I don't think we'll bother with lunch.' Groaning slightly at the seams, we went on to do that essential food shopping. Not the boring stuff like sprouts and parsnips - the exciting nibbles and oddities you'd never consider buying any normal time of year. There's a lot been said about class in Britain. In Marlborough, one of the subtle indicators of the sort of clientele it attracts are the supermarkets. Forget Lidl and Aldi

... when blog posts become mystically hard to concentrate on. Normal service should be resumed shortly after the New Year, but between now and then things are like to be sporadic.

Off to Oxford yesterday to sing at the Oxford Un iversity Physics Department carol service. The tightwad in me was delighted to discover Oxford's park and rides now have free parking. I found the location, the University of Church of St Mary the Virgin, to give it its full title, with ease - a rather strangely squashed church in the High. I’ve no connection with the physics department, but fellow Redhammer author M G Harris snuck me into the choir. She’s a biochemist, but at least she’s Oxford-based. We sung some stunning music to an impressive standard. My surprise like was Carol of the Bells by M. Leontovich – surprise because I hate it as the music for an irritating advert for Garmin satnavs on commercial radio. But in the original form it’s quite fun. It apparently featured in the movie Home Alone – hence this being available to listen to it in full glory. The real gems, however, were t wo modern British pieces. They remind me why I love good modern church music as much a

If you hate being rejected, don't try to be an author. Actually, if everyone took that advice, there wouldn't be any authors - I don't know anyone in this business who doesn't hate that horrible sensation that an agent or publisher could turn down your work. There are a few notable exceptions who went straight into being published without a single rejection, but the vast majority of even the greats, let alone us humble scribblers, have a satisfyingly thick pile of rejection letters, each one a slap in the face that really hurt. Inevitably, once rejected, we try to justify and explain. We search for every ounce of meaning in those few terse lines. Perhaps they said something that suggests they quite like my book. But did they really mean it, or were they being polite? Is it a form letter, or is it personal? Does it tell me something that can help me make my book more marketable elsewhere? It is impossible not to do it, but there is limited benefit to poring over the ent

I have a very serious matter to consider here. Since it's almost Christmas (sorry, that robin 's out there again. Honestly.) I have to consider the suspicious addictiveness of Cadbury's chocolate buttons. (Especially the giant ones.) Why are they so irresistable? Surely we need an investigative journalist to look into this. They must be putting something naughty in them. It's also highly important you eat them the right way. For me it has to be two at a time, with at least one curved edge facing the other button. That way, when you bite there is an irresitable crack of thin chocolate planes fracturing against each other in the mouth. Forget your 70% cocoa solids rubbish. Ditch your oozing-with-milk Swiss confectioners' frippery. Dispose of anything that has had sight of a 'chocolatier'. Give me Cadbury's buttons every time. Sigh. Normal service will be restored tomorrow.

The title of this post sounds like a tongue twister, but that's not the intention. I've just read a novel with science at its heart that claims not to be science fiction. It's Experimental Heart by Jennifer Rohn . It's kind of a romance, with a dark subplot, taking place in a laboratory setting. There's lots of realistic sounding science, and as far as I can gather (never having been a practising scientist) a strong sense of the atmosphere in a real lab. (If this is the case, I'd hate to work in a lab as they always seem to have a CD on, and I can't concentrate with music playing.) It was a delight, as is often the case when I read a book of a kind I wouldn't normally pick up. Although to begin with not much happens, it's written well enough that you are sucked into the story and want to know more. Later on, things get positively page turning as the plot thickens. But what of Lab Lit , the term Dr Rohn gives to this style of book? Does it work as a

Apologies that Christmas seems to be cropping up rather a lot at the moment. Can I help it that there's a robin sitting on the branch outside my window at the moment? Sorry about the shaky photo - it's too dark really, and taking through glass I couldn't use flash, but I wanted to prove it really is there. As it's all the robin's fault (the robin made me do it), I feel quite happy telling you about a rather nice series of posts appearing on the Transworld blog, Between the Lines . They've asked various authors what they would like for Christmas. Here's Monday's entry , which includes Andy McNab, Joanne Harris, Jilly Cooper and John O'Farrell. Watch out all week for more of these entertaining musings.

There's quite a buzz in the book business at the moment to encourage people to buy books for Christmas. This has even resulted in this video being produced: For what it's worth, I'd like to add my voice to the call. You can buy one to suit anyone, they're great value for money, there's more pleasure in them than most presents, they're easy to wrap... and you'll make an author somewhere have a warm glow. I'm not saying you have to buy my books (though it would be nice - A Brief History of Infinity 's a good present choice) - just buy books. Please!

Something I'll be giving as a present this Christmas is Andrew Viner's excellent book Venn That Tune, which presents well-known songs in Venn diagram form (and as other plots). It's great fun and ideal gift book. Here's a Christmas one for you to try: You can buy Andrew's book from Amazon.co.uk or Amazon.com . (I should stress most of the songs are pop songs, the example here is a Christmas special.)

Why is it that the central heating waits until it's really cold before breaking down? (Okay, you Scandinavian types, I know circa freezing isn't really cold in your parts, but it's cold enough.) The signs were there when it shut down one night with a dramatic fading wail, like the dilithium crystals giving way on Star Trek, then gave off a series of loud bangs and clonks in the pipes that made it seem we were under heavy attack by militant plumbers. After waking to cold radiators and a baleful red light on the control panel, several resets later it is running, but seems to be very confused about when it's hot enough, cutting out every few minutes when the radiators are only lukewarm. To make matters worse, it's now intermittant - it can suddenly remember how to work for an hour or two, then give up again. This means, inevitably, that when the boiler man comes tomorrow morning it will purr away and behave perfectly. Oh, joy.

Scientists are often accused of being limited culturally. When I recently mentioned I was hoping to sing at the Oxford University Physics Department carol service, it caused amusement and surprise. Yet when I was at college, about half of the active musicians were scientists. And I'm currently reading an excellent novel by an active scientist, of which more later when I've finished it. However, I recently threw down a challenge on the science online network Nature Network by giving the opening line to a poem: 'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the lab ... I have to say I'm delighted by the response. You can watch this monster growing live (including an animated reading of part of it) at this blog entry . To give a feel for the progress so far, I've accumulated the lines below. Bearing in mind the way it has been assembled, and overlooking the inevitable in-jokes (including the intentionally mis-spelled girrafe) and the need for a little editing to mak

Thanks to Donna's excellent Write Report , I am alerted to the apparent fact that Oxford University Press has removed a list of words from its children's dictionary to make room for more trendy ones. The purged words include aisle and bishop , empire and monarch , allotment and willow . Apparently we are now so multi-cultural, modern and urban in the UK we don't need words relating to Christianity, history or nature. Now, I have to put a word of caution in here. The story is in the Daily Telegraph , second only to the Daily Mail in conservative paranoia. However, assuming the facts are true, and the Torygraph is usually quite good at facts, this is appalling. We are desperately enthusiastic to support the cultural heritage of everyone except the British - what about our heritage, guys? (Or have you taken heritage out of your fictionary too?) Fictionary was a typo, but I've left it in as it seems apt. I admit some of the new words ought to go in, but not all - and th

Having some fun this week appearing as guest on the Litopia podcast, talking about being a writer, time management, life, the universe and everything. Yesterday's is here , today's here and Wednesday to Friday's will appear on the main site as and when released. It's very enjoyable to do - less pressure than a regular radio interview, which became obvious when I failed to undertake that standard precaution for being interviewed - make sure all phones in the vicinity are switched off.

I have, in the past, been a little harsh on the W. H. Smith's store at Paddington Station in London, as their popular science section has now shrunk down so small that it's only one, narrow shelf. However, last time I was there, that single shelf featured (as it often has in the past) a copy of my book A Brief History of Infinity - so forget the moans, what a lovely shop it is. Go and buy! Especially from the popular science section...

A bright, crisp, sunny and frosty morning has pushed me over the edge. The MP3 player has been loaded with Christmas music. Car journeys will be jolly for a few weeks. Even the wait at the road works on the way to Sainsbury's brought a forgiving smile rather than an angry mumble. It's that time of year...

I've just finished reading a book and briefly I was upset. I felt manipulated by the author - cheated. At first sight, this is a pretty feeble reaction. The whole business of writing fiction is a matter of manipulation. To transfer the reader from their comfy chair to a different place, into danger, into someone else's head - it's all manipulation. But the good author does this in such a way that you don't notice. You mustn't ever see them pulling the strings. Now in this case it was puzzling that I felt like this, because it's a very good author indeed. So what was happening? I won't tell you who, or which book, or this will turn into a spoiler. But it was a crime novel. When I'd bought it, Amazon had splashed after its name 'an X Y crime novel', where X Y is the name of the writer's detective. Yet by the time I got 3/4 way through the book it was very obvious that X Y only had a bit part - another detective was the main character. Here'

It takes quite a lot to get me angry (stop sniggering at the back), but they've done it now. Why is it that people who design web forms often make them so they can't cope with spaces in phone numbers? Real phone numbers have spaces in them. They do. So there. What really winds me up is the error message. I type in a phone number. With a space, like it should have. And it goes to the trouble of telling me 'Phone numbers must be digits only with no spaces.' Why did you do that? If you wanted it without a space, why tell me? Why not just remove it? It's the most trivial thing in C or practically any other sensible programming language to remove spaces from a string of text. It's about a second's work. A lot less than putting in a prissy warning message. Someone out there needs a radical working over with a heavy programming manual. Be warned programmers. Be warned.

Sainsbury's supermarket, in a moment of madness, has introduced what I can only call semi-demi skimmed milk (musical reference). It comes between skimmed and semi-skimmed, for reasons I really can't imagine. But the interesting thing is the signal it gives off. Semi-demi skimmed milk has an orange top. At first sight this is highly logical as it fits between red topped and green topped milk - just like traffic lights. Except in every other colour coding of this sort, green means better for you and red means worse for you. But with milk, the colours are: Red - best Orange - not quite as good Green - okayish Blue - watch out arteries It's a nightmare. And, of course, while it would be logical to reassign these as green, blue, orange and red respectively, they presumably never can, because the buyers are already used to them. Sigh.

Our local Borders has the inevitable Starbucks up on a balcony that gives you a magnificent commanding view of most of the store (sadly both science and children's books are out of sight, but you see everyone coming in). When I occasionally sit up there with a coffee I like to play the 'spot the author' game. I've never seen any, but from personal experience, I know what the signs should be. First, the frenetic scan. Looking through the relevant section for your book. No it's not there. Better look again. Perhaps someone has put it back in the wrong place. No, still not there. At this point there will often be a terrible cry of pain. Second, should the book actually be present, the author goes into cunning mode. (S)he removes one or two books from the shelves, scans the backs and replaces them. Approximately the third book to be scanned will be her/his own book. This is then put back face forward on one of those piles of some irritating book that no one wants to buy

An interesting time on Friday as a speaker at St Bernard's School in Southend. It started a trifle worryingly. The trusty SatNav took me to the door, but there was no car park - no way even to get into the school grounds for a car - and the adjacent street was absolute space free. Luckily, there was an associated church next door with a small car park, and though I was told that parking there unannounced risked the considerable wrath of the priest, he was apparently placated on my behalf. I had a couple of hours in the morning with sixth form English students, who were a pleasure to talk to - though it seemed one group of four out of around 35 had a lot more to say than the rest. Most of lunchtime (over a surprisingly good packed lunch provided by the school, including fresh melon and pineapple) I was chatting to a supply teacher who was an actor before coming into teaching, and still does some walk-on work - the parallels between being an actor and a writer (bad pay for most, subm