Arlene Hunt – Writer

Today I was running in the BUPA Great Run -at the speed of no kittens- when I realised I was thoroughly enjoying myself, despite my lack of any real pace. The sun was shining, my friend Ian was running ahead of me, all was pretty much right with the world. I don’t normally get bursts of contentment so wholesome so I basked in it. Then I hit the 8k mark and had to run up a hill.

I have finished book 6. The working name was The Vision, but on reflection I think I might change it to The Outsider, a more fitting title . Oh I’ve got two more weeks of edits and hair pulling, but it’s all there, the bones, some of the skin, hair and make up are next.

This bit, this bit here, the edits, are like that hill at the 8k mark, the race is behind you, but you’ve still got to run that last bit. Oh you’re tired and you’re pink faced but the end is in sight so you think what the hell, you’ll give it everything you’ve got. And you do, and by golly it’s all good.

I came home from my race to find my husband had painted the back wall. We’ve had our garden done, three weeks of carting top soil, hardcore, pebbles, sleepers, sand, rolls of lawn and cement in from the front, by hand, in wheelbarrows. This too is nearly done, the bones are there, hair and make up are next.

I planted a scented Jasmine against the freshly painted back wall. Opus, my aged basset hound, plonked his big backside down beside it and gave it the once over, it seemed he approved.

When the race is nearly run you can really appreciate the little things.

( Ian finished at a blistering 42 something or other seconds, I poodled in almost 20 minutes after. We are going for pint in an hour or so, oh yes, a fine day indeed)

You know, I’ve been terrible remiss with my blog here, mea culpa. In my defense I’ve been working flat out on a new book called The Vision, and as the deadline approaches like a grouchy pale rider I’ve become more insular and slightly frothy at the mouth. But it was with the greatest of pleasure that I drifted into the Westbury yesterday to enjoy the experience of Undertow making the  Irish Book Awards shortlist for crime novel of the year.

I’m in with some good company, there is also Tana French, Alex Barclay and Brian McGilloway in my category. I have forewarned Brian  -in an act of extreme kindness-   that I plan to poison his food on the night of the award show proper. Not that I think he’s the only one to beat, but he emailed me offering congratulations, so I thought it only fair to give him a heads up. Tana and Alex are just going to have to bring food testers.

I was interviewed yesterday about crime writing and as I rambled on for a few moments about being chuffed to be nominated at all, it occurred to me I wasn’t just waffling. I am really delighted. Especially since there are some glaring omissions from the list, chaps whose books I devour the moment the ink is dry and their copy is the shops.

So hurrah for crime writing. Apart from the poisoning I wish everyone well.

You may vote here.