Idle blogs of an idle fellow

Journeys from the fax

The Importance of Corners when Writing.

Regular visitors to idle blogs, idlers as they might be known, will be familiar with the coffee shop as an important element to the writing process. It’s all very well setting up a lovely study at home from which children are banned to sing the theme tune to Yo-Kai Watch if you have opportunity, but chances are that instead of writing you’ll spend the day enmeshed in the intricacies of telephone banking, or rearranging your books in the order that you recall reading them. Leaving the house is a good idea for anyone, particularly writers, before you’re talking to yourself and hearing the furniture reply.

It’s good for people to see writers at work. It may not hold attention for long, after all, how entertaining is a person sighing loudly, but still, we need to publicise our existence. One of the most common responses to discovering you’re a writer, after initial shock involving a slack jaw, is the question ‘are those still going?’ You reassure them that books are indeed ‘still going’ despite a part of you being deeply aware that needing to explain this shows how the battle lines are already redrawn.

Our local coffee shop has a such a regular clientele that no one needs to order anymore. As in PG Wodehouse novels, customers are known by their regular order: Flat white, English breakfast, Tight arse who brings in his own banana, etc. And as any creative knows, the fetish of how  and where you write is crucial. The aforementioned Wodehouse invariably wrote with a Pekinese warming his feet and was finished by an early lunch, while Hemingway’s prose was soaked in whiskey and manliness and probably started at lunchtime.

As a tea drinker in a coffee shop I feel like an imposter, but as I’m tapping studiously away into my laptop, carefully compiling playlists for future unwritten novels, I feel at home. That is if I’m in a corner, although I’m unsure why being cornered is the perfect muse. Where sailors had mermaids, I seek a nice secure corner. I’d rather not analyse this too closely, but the knowledge that your back is covered is reassuring.

However, I’m not alone in seeking a corner for creative purposes. Sadly there are only ever four in a room, and there are clearly other writers on the run, refusing to sit back-to-the-door. I had been hoping for a blue plaque on the window seat corner, but another writer has started arriving before me. He’s too tired to write, and sits there with a smug look, occasionally mingling with a bafflement as to who or where he is, but at least he has the best table in the house. I have little sympathy, and he had better be writing a better novel than me. He’s got no excuse not to be. In fact there should be some method of measuring this, to ensure the corners get the writers they deserve. I’d suggest this, but who wants competitive writers kicking off and knocking over inkwells.

I suppose writing at home might be preferable, there’s less competition, but no one can see you sighing there.

The Life Assistance Agency – selected by WHSmith Fresh Talent 2017 –  is available here – The sequel is due to be published in March 2019, depending upon whether I get a corner table.

and here,thomas-hocknell-9781911129035


and on ebook here –



The problem with Terrible Novels

Some books are best left forgotten… 

It’s hard to remember bad novels because good ones make such a lasting impression that they thankfully obliterate the memory of the poor ones. The only impact the poor ones make are on the sides of recycling bins.

I’m not going to name (m) any names, after all, I’m a novelist. I know how much goes into writing a book. For some writers real life is just noise in the background; simply material with which to mould stories and tricky plot knots.

To be fair it’s all a matter of taste. To some people my debut novel the Life Assistance Agency is a glorious collision of the Blues Brothers meets Da-Vinci Code,  while others think it’s really good. The clearest sign that a book is rubbish is when you’re accompanying the reading with sighing sounds. Pages are turned with the sort of dread familiar to anyone who has to take young children swimming later in the day*. I’m pleased no one has yet compared this with mine.

There was a time when I felt obliged, in accordance with some unwritten code rumoured to exist atop himalayan mountains, to finish any book I picked up. I’ve been more loyal to books I dislike than friends I like. This once meant trawling my way through The 91 principles of Cataloging when I mistakenly held it for someone while they jumped off a bridge. To be fair it was a text book. Yet it’s always awkward when friends recommend a book that it turns out to be less readable than a doorstop. (BTW Alan, thankfully I’m throughly enjoying A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman!). You sometimes return a book with a vague nod at having enjoyed it, praying that they don’t press you for enlightening thoughts on what happened at any point beyond page 32.

It’s hard to be objective; one man’s If on a Winter’s night a traveller by Italo Calvino is another’s 50 shades of Grey, and to be honest it’s hard to slag off books when it’s admirable to find people still actually reading and not scrolling through anodyne updates on social media. However, the idea of reading another novel encompassing cross- generation Irish families with hidden secrets makes me want to suggest taking the kids’ swimming.

Bigger targets are the easiest to hit, and the aforementioned Dan Brown’s Da-Vinci Code really is unreadable to anyone who likes English, sentences and words. One of the best examples of him failing to capture an instantly recognisable human experience is:  

He could taste the familiar tang of museum air – an arid, deionized essence that carried a faint hint of carbon – the product of industrial, coal-filter dehumidifiers that ran around the clock to counteract the corrosive carbon dioxide exhaled by visitors.

Although, perhaps if most people walk into museums, sniff the air and think ‘is that the arid, deionized essence carrying a faint hint of carbon?’ or ‘how corrosive is my breath exactly?’ then I’ve been kept in the dark. Or rather, the night-long gloom that envelopes sentient beings with an inability to envision where they might be traversing in the dim blackness, as Dan Brown might put it.

It was at the museum point that I decided I had better things to do than follow Robert Langdon running through corridors and libraries, and thought I’d do something else. Like anything. Even DIY, or glossing. It’s so bad that even Ron Howard and Tom Hanks couldn’t make a watchable film of it. The book I mean, not my glossing.

Perhaps its sensible to get in with preemptive attacks, like Daniel Pitts’ book called The Most Boring Book Ever Written, which almost demands critics to argue otherwise.  And the critics are baffling. The Evening Standard described Hanif Kureshi’s The Last Word as ‘brilliantly funny’. Now, I’m aware that daily reporting of London stabbings must cloud your judgement, but it must’ve been a very quiet day in the office for the self-absorbed protagonist, who changes characteristics quicker than you can keep up with them, to be described as brilliant, much less funny. Mind you, Kureshi might think I’m lucky to have my novel beside his, and he’d probably be right.

*More of this in a future blog post.

My novel can of course be reviewed, so I’m hoping Dan Brown or Hanif Kureshi are not reading this.

The Life Assistance Agency – selected by WHSmith Fresh Talent 2017 –  is available here –

and here,thomas-hocknell-9781911129035

and on ebook here –










Simple Minds – Between Two Worlds – live at the Roundhouse.

If there was one resounding image from tonight’s gig, it was Jim Kerr, alone on stage after the band had exited following a silky Don’t you forget about me, dancing alone to Roxy Music on the PA, like the teenager so in love with music he still can’t stop.

Guitarist Charlie Burchill is the same. No one’s told him not to smile like he is the band’s biggest fan been allowed on stage. He’s one of music’s underrated players, utterly intrinsic to the Glasgow band’s sound, even if it’s music now appealing to men who’d get thrown out of their golf club for the leather jacket they’re wearing,

Simple Minds have played 3000 gigs since their first at Glasgow’s discotheque Satellite City 40 years and sometimes you want a band that once sound-tracked your bedroom posturing to play new songs. The songs you imagined they might write all those years ago; new songs in which to sink your still-bruised soul and discover understanding. Well tonight they did. Simple Minds are so pleased with their new album Walk Between Worlds they are playing it live. The entire thing. To a crowd who are probably wishing they’d bought it.  For those hoping to skip and instead bounce in new ways to old songs were destined for disappointment, although the band did start with the haunting European trance of I Travel, and hopes were raised by swamp funk morphing into the proto trance of a pulsating Love Song.

With a new line-up joining Kerr and Burchill, inc. drummer Cherisse Osei, the band look like the upper deck of a night bus, however their prize still glitters. Kerr is in awe of Osei, although where one goes after describing previous drummer (long-standing Mel Gaynor) as ‘the greatest drummer in the world’ is beyond even Kerr’s hyperbole.

There’s a steel-tight riff of Magic, which is so new even Charlie isn’t mouthing along to every lyric, and although not everything sticks it’s fascinating to hear the band as you might a new group. Most songs feel like growers, although Summer sounds like an ill-advised Chris Rea remix.

They break after side 1 of the new record for a brief chat, ‘so we can have a sit down’ Kerr jokes. He enjoys the stage like a seal enjoys water. Of the new songs side 2 is better: Barrowland Star hits like a classic and they know it. Kerr points at his old school friend with another ‘Charlie!’ who unleashes swelling waves of guitar chops. Kerr’s final words will either be ‘Let me see your hands’ or ‘Charlie…’ Sense of Discovery succeeds in not only referencing Alive and Kicking (which they later play to rapturous reception) but does so with a beautifully segued new riff. They revisit synth new wave with the title track, before a pause to announce the godly Waterfront, announcing the victory lap of a joyous Someone, Somewhere, in Summertime and The American. However, there remains the inexplicable absence of All the things she said.

A subtly spruced up New Gold Dream is perfection as-ever and still illustrates how they found their ambition before U2 had recovered from New Year’s Day. The crowd leave; grinning as Kerr still dad dances alone on the stage, miming the lyrics of Roxy Music, reluctant to allow the night to end.

My novel, The Life Assistance Agency – selected by WHSmith Fresh Talent 2017 –  featuring Simple Minds and Bruce Springsteen is available here –

and here,thomas-hocknell-9781911129035

and on ebook here –










Do we still do Valentine’s day?

For anyone with admirers and insatiable appetite for chocolates and flowers it’s your time of year again. Anyone without an admirer in their life on Valentine’s Day should either buy one, if that’s still allowed, or read this post.

What is it about the 14th February that redefines how we express our love for one another? Overnight, a vague ‘I love you’ as you dash onto the school run is deemed inadequate if not accompanied by chocolate in ribbons and overpriced flowers. Suddenly, if you can’t say it with a Cadillac-sized Hello Kitty doll then it’s not worth saying at all.

It’s hard to know what’s most annoying about Valentine’s Day. Of course my distaste for it is NOTHING to do with not getting any valentines cards at an early age where your social standing is based entirely upon a) quantity of valentine cards received, b) your parents having a swimming pool and c) your ability to fart on younger children’s heads, lack of success in all three contributed significantly towards my low-ranking social status.

February has apparently been long celebrated as a month of romance. That’s easy to believe, after all, due to not having seen the sun since November, your seasonal affective disorder (SAD) has left you mumbling at unattainable tropical destinations in the travel supplements of weekend newspapers. It’s so dark outside that romance must be the only answer, although there’s the sense of an audience so broken that they’ll clap at anything.  Valentine’s Day sure did one thing right, and that was its timing.

The Romans took the day as an opportunity to congregate at some sacred cave where the founders of Rome were believed to have been cared for by a she-wolf. You can probably see where this is going. The priests would then sacrifice a goat, for fertility, and a dog, for purification. Rather typically cats avoid this. The goat’s hide would then be cut into strips, before being dipped into sacrificial blood and taken into the streets. Both women, and nearby crop fields, would be gently slapped with the hide. This is the first time I’ve encountered women and crop fields with equal billing, and being gently slapped by bloodied hide isn’t exactly the most predictable of romantic gestures, so full marks for the unexpected. However, for anyone attempting this today I’d recommend that you establish the are not a vegan beforehand. While I don’t profess to fully understand the female psyche, if this is the sort of surprise they enjoy in lieu of a candlelit meal for two, then I’ve been misled.

The truth behind the Valentine legend is murky, which is rather fortunate for the saint, as I’m sure a few people would like a word in his ear, or at least reimbursement for the enormous Hello Kitty heart doll that cost a week’s wages for delivering to her place of work, which she then has to carry home. Because nothing screams romance like apologising for a soft toy large enough to require a ticket to a carriage of commuters already struggling for space. Valentine’s Day is a day when trying too hard, while not doing quite enough, have never danced so closely. But, let’s face it, really nothing says ‘I love you’ quite like a dying bouquet of flowers.

My novel, The Life Assistance Agency – selected by WHSmith Fresh Talent 2017 –  is obviously the perfect Valentine’s day gift, and is available here –

and here,thomas-hocknell-9781911129035

and on ebook here –




Is taking a legal Smart Drug stupid?

Want to be cleverer…?

One of the problems with human beings, apart from their inherent ability to overpopulate the planet, insistence on watching team sports and blocking the middle lane, is their tendency to invent things without fully understanding the ramifications. If Thomas Edison, inventor of the mechanical phonograph cylinder, had known in 1877 that this would lead to ten Westlife albums, including a Frank Sinatra covers album (Allow us to be Frank – No, put the vintage 50s mic down) because presumably the legendary crooner failed to truly nail those standards like five Irish chancers on stools could, would he have burnt his phonograph blueprints? The list of regrettable inventions is endless, from Segway scooters, to Iphone covers with fucking massive mouse ears, to shoe umbrellas and those metallic reflectors for tanning your neck.

But, perhaps there’s none more ill-thought out than smart drugs. Modafinil claims to help keep up with workloads and is popular among students – with as many as 25 % taking them to increase smartness, and yet they STILL need Safe Spaces. Of course smart drugs to make you feel more intelligent have been around for millennia, often in the shape of beer, which can make you so bright that you encase your head in concrete inside a microwave for a bet.

The main reason that smart drugs are an ill-thought out invention is that another problem with humans is individual unflappable belief in their own intelligence, particularly when confronted with other humans, who are invariable stupid; and this is before they’ve taken any Modafinil. Imagine walking around actually being more intelligent than people and the idiocy you’d have to endure. Although paying for car park tickets via your phone might finally be possible, you’d have to do a lot of parking to make it worthwhile.

However, smart drugs do appear to increase cognition. Fighter pilots even take them to improve reaction times, which aren’t entirely necessary for writers sitting in coffee shops, but are appealing nonetheless.

And it certainly is appealing. Writer David Adam in the Sunday Times described how he took one as an experiment, and went to his usual cafe to write. As its effects kicked in he could barely type sentences quick enough. The words felt sharper and better than ever before. It sounds like being strapped to MS Word rather than an F-16 breaking the sound barrier, but was a thin line nonetheless. I wonder if it’s like writing a book on speed, only to discover in the morning that you’ve transcribed the English dictionary. Apparently it even increased the size of Adam’s screen. He didn’t declare if this applied to other things, but what a cheap way to upgrade your laptop. However, someone else reported that the drug helped him focus, but it was on the wrong things – such as playing video games on his Smartphone. Because if there’s one thing mankind needs these days is increased use of their smart phones; which have been smarter than their owners since the iPhone 4s, and don’t require Modafinil, only recharging twice a day.

There have been other inadvertent consequences of taking Modafinil. Psychiatrists, in their usual habit of throwing medications at pathologies to see which one sticks, treated a 45 year old Turkish woman for sleeplessness with Modafinil, only to find it increased her sex drive, much to the alarm of her 75-year-old husband. Another reported side effect is severe headaches, which was clearly something this woman didn’t suffer from, but her husband wished she did.

Yes. I think it’s best to be thick, life is hard enough without knowing with certainty that you are invariably right, about everything. It might even lead to thinking you can record a Frank Sinatra covers album. Just say no people, don’t put the tool into stool.

My novel, The Life Assistance Agency – selected by WHSmith Fresh Talent 2017 –  is available here –

and here,thomas-hocknell-9781911129035

and on ebook here –





When to submit your novel to Literary Agents.

We all have goals in life, it might be reaching new levels on Candy Crush, or for the less remedial, intending to read more novels, or perhaps even write one. The first revelation is that novels aren’t as easy to write as they are to read, unless it’s Wolf Hall.

It’s hard to know how many times I sent my completed novel out to agents and publishers, even more times than I completed it for the final time – seventeen times. Any literary agency fool enough to publicise their email and submission details will have seen it at some point. Some twice, and some probably seventeen times.

But, if literary doomsayers are believed (i.e. me), it’s hard to know why anyone would be bothered. People are too busy looking at their phones like insecure new mothers to be reading books. Writing a novel feels like inventing the steam engine at the advent of the internal combustion engine. Yet people persist.

However, as the human race evolves from hunters and gatherers, to audiences demanding constant entertainment, buckets of food and wi-fi connections on trains at 220 feet underground, novels maintain an admirable hold over us, or at least the film adaptations do.

As the new year approaches, literary agents must already be bracing themselves for the flurry of novel (or less novel) submissions completed through seasonal hangovers, winter illness, and inebriated family encouragement. Spam filters already sending automatically generated rejection letters to novels with cats as protaganists, will be updated to strip out novels involving girls on trains and teenage wizards.

The best advice to any debut novelist on completing a manuscript is to lock it in a drawer for 6 months,and post the key overseas instead of sending it to the nearest agency before the ink’s dried, which is what everyone does. It’s only once receipt is acknowledged that you realise it was an experimental old draft, which you’d written from the POV of a sock, and described literary agents as illiterate swamp donkeys.

Then there’s the posted submissions, which some agencies insist upon, presuming, probably correctly, that despite having spent 5 years working on a novel, for most writers, printing off its first 3 chapters and writing a covering letter, is too much effort.  Once thanking the exhausted Canon Gs-57 printer in your workplace in the acknowledgements, and using all its paper, you walk to the postbox swinging imaginary holes-in-one, despite never having played golf in your life. The showbiz hi-hat cymbal, as the manuscript joins the others already in the letterbox is spoilt only by the immediate realisation that your protagonist’s mother needs to be a monk, not a seamstress.

However, before even facing up to the horror of a rewrite, you need to retrieve your manuscript. As an alternative to breaking into the agency at night, or waiting to intercept the postman, you nod companionably at passers-by, while dislocating your arm in four different places attempting to extricate it from the depths of the letterbox.

Then come the rejection slips. Some arrive so rapidly that agencies somehow send them before confirmation of having even received the manuscript. There are also some more ideas on how to quicken up the rejection procedure:

  • Send a precise outline of your availability for book signings and appearances for the next 5 years.
  • Include a series of photos showcasing various outfits you intend to wear to prize ceremonies, with invitation for their feedback on most suitable combinations.
  • Make a short list of actors you wish to appear in the film.
  • Make a long list of actors you wish to appear in the film.
  • Suggest they contact Sophie Marceau as escort for the duration of promotional tours.
  • Outline your rider, which includes ballpoint pens that someone has already scribbled with to ensure they work immediately when needed.

It’s difficult submitting something you believe is good because Aunt Joan enjoyed it after one too many ports. Everyone is writing a novel, possibly more than those reading them. Agencies are so inundated by manuscripts they abandon offices every 6 months, while losing sleep over the fact that some might be good. It’s why you have to ignore the pain of a rejection slip, like boxing, after the 50th punch they stop hurting. But who knows, perhaps yours might be one sliding off the ‘slush’ pile into the hands of the agent with a free weekend ahead to spend reading. If not, there’s always next year, or Angry Birds.

My novel, The Life Assistance Agency – selected by WHSmith Fresh Talent 2017 –  is available here –

and here,thomas-hocknell-9781911129035

and on ebook here –




Writing in the local Cafe – How Much Work REALLY Gets Done?

Where do writers get their stories?

There are many questions writers ask themselves and the important one, after ‘Why did I bloody start this?’ is ‘Shall I work from home, or the local cafe?’ Cafes have long been presumed to be full of poets, artists and novelists so it’s a non-brainer; until you get there and its rammed with harassed looking mothers, their screaming pre-school offspring and architects working from ‘home’.

So, how much work actually gets done at home? I’m not even sure that much homework gets done at home anymore. I’ve talked before about how working from home mainly involves high-level pottering achieving little more than moving stuff that may or may not need to be moved from one room to another, and often then back again. And lots of pacing. I once walked five miles without opening the front door. Homes are best suited for lounging in waiting for vinyl to be delivered, and to escape the weather outside, not for working in.

I was always struck by JK Rowling reporting how writing in a cafe was some kind of hallmark of a breadline writer, when it’s actually far easier to write in a cafe than it is at home. There’s less distraction, and if you wander aimlessly around the cafe like a pottering field mouse looking for its memory you’ll be asked to leave. However, writing regularly in the same public space also has pitfalls.

It is amazing how much of writing in public spaces is actually spent talking to anyone who mistakenly makes eye contact. Not that partners, agents or publishers are informed of this. Even if they were one could claim it as research. One of the chaps I made friends with in the local cafe was Bob – who yes, used to be builder. He was born in South London a few miles away in 1929, left school at 14 and followed his father into the building trade. He passed away recently aged 86 shortly before Christmas in Lewisham hospital and it was a pleasure to have known him.

At his funeral so many stories were told of his so many narrow escapes with death that one was almost tempted to knock on the coffin to ensure he had indeed passed. I was told of one occasion when the health and safety wisdom of working a roof by tying your waist to the nearest chimney stack was challenged by the chimney collapsing, and taking Bob with it. He arrived soot-laden in a fireplace.

He recalled being evacuated to Wales, and the Blitz, during which a mobile Anti Aircraft gun was parked outside his house in west Dulwich. During the next air raid it opened up and blew out all the windows in the street; causing more damage than the Germans achieved. He was also narrowly missed when a fighter bomber strafed Goose Green, killing several school children; one beside him. My Dad, the same age as Bob, also recalls German aircraft machine gunning a children’s playground in Catford as they returned home.

Working in public you will meet writers. They’re the ones looking harassed at the harassed looking mothers. Generally you can’t swing a copy of the Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook in St David’s Coffee House without hitting a few scribblers. And words offering to read their book sound like your own because they are, and eventually more time is spent reading their manuscripts than your own.

There’s incredibly smugness in people who work from home, as though eating flapjacks for lunch in your pyjamas is a mark of success, and perhaps it is, but you don’t get to chat, and you don’t get the stories. Although you don’t leave with more manuscripts than you came in with.

R.I.P. Robert Hobbs.

My novel, The Life Assistance Agency – selected by WHSmith Fresh Talent 2017 –  is available for all homeworkers here –

and here,thomas-hocknell-9781911129035

and on ebook here –








How to Write a Historical Novel

…there’s plenty of history and everyone has some.

The first thing to do when writing a historical novel is to very seriously ask yourself if you want to. Actually, scrub that, the first thing you do is write a blog about your intention to write a historical novel. After all, staring down the barrel of imminent venture demands idling around the subject rather than cracking on, which basically defines blogging. It also defines writing a historical novel. I know a writer who planned to finish his novel on the Crimean war by the end of the year, 1998. He’s still researching it. He got bedded in at the Pattern 1796 Light Calvary Sabre, a sword used primarily by British Light Dragoons, and hasn’t been seen since he determined to find relatives of the swordsmiths who manufactured it.

There’s a healthy market for historical novels, although that’s poor justification for writing one. I guess there’s plenty of history and everyone has some. Before even writing a word sci-fi is looking appealing; you can ditch research and simply make it up, but it’s too late; my story already has shape. The novel starts in 1930s Poland (that’s Poland, not Poundland), which means clever popular culture/contemporary metaphors ‘as cutting edge as Steve Wright in the afternoon’ will be replaced by era-pertinent analogies such as ‘cutting edge as an electric razor, (which was invented in 1931 before purists squeal). You can spend weeks deliberating nothing more than whether book-keepers in the 1950s used an HB pencil or a 6B.

The sequel to the Life Assistance Agency is completed, bar a few sweeps behind its sofas and plumping the cushions, so what an ideal time to kick back and enjoy some sense of achievement. But of course that isn’t how writers approach the world. If there isn’t a novel to wrestle with we fight other things, like people or shop loyalty card help lines. We pace about and look for problems that aren’t there. It’s better these remain on pages. I already have seven internet windows open with various searches of interest that I’m loath to minimise in case one holds the rosetta stone to my story.

Writing a novel is hard enough without depriving yourself of a familiar world in which to set it. It also means I need to visit Poland, hire a car, and investigate clues to the old border with Germany in September 1939, which doesn’t really define family holiday – it’s not exactly  what children have in mind when then get excited about holidays. Mildewed concrete gun emplacements are poor substitute for Centre Parks even during peak season.

It is significant departure from the light-hearted PG Wodehouse influenced Life Assistance novels, which is unsettling. It’s rather typical that a humorous writer wishes to write a serious novel, and is even already (mentally) accepting prizes for the first post-Brexit novel. I’m confident my fans will cope, particularly as I’ve rung then to warn them. Once I got my Mum off the phone and promised to visit more frequently, I spent the rest of the break deciding upon my protagonist’s name. You have to like the name of someone you intend to spend the next two years with, particularly when you are able to choose it.

So, it’s Aleksander, and not just because it was the first name I reached in the A-Z of Polish names, but because it can be abbreviated from the Polish to the anglicised Alex. OK, it was the first name I found in the A-Z.

Alex spends a lot of time in the countryside, which helpfully avoids need for exhaustive knowledge of technical or social aspects of 1930s Europe. The countryside doesn’t change much. It’s something of its appeal. The trees Alex sleeps beneath are the same as those which the crusaders tethered their horses to.

The new novel feels like a considerable challenge, but one of the best things about historical fiction is that you can sit around reading. It might appear lazy, but is actually research, just so long as I avoid the 1796 Light Calvary Sabre. Someone has that covered.

My novel, The Life Assistance Agency – selected by WHSmith Fresh Talent 2017 –  is available here –

and here,thomas-hocknell-9781911129035

and on ebook here –



A new year – Happy 2018

Just a super quick blog, note to self might be more accurate, to wish all idle followers of my blog a very fantastic, lucrative, and well-moisturised 2018. Or anodyne, cash -strapped and dry,  depending upon you proclivity.

I hope you have a good night tonight. I would be watching Ski-Sunday, but it finished years ago, so instead will be viewing last year’s Jools Holland Hootenanny, starting from  8pm, which means it should be finished by 9:30 and I can go to bed having already celebrated midnight.

I’m also anticipating knowing what actually day it is from tomorrow, you know, with a number as opposed to a name.  Any new year resolutions are achievable – basically keep my job, get the sequel to the Life Assistance Agency edited and published and start a new  book. And maybe get a dog. And stop liking stuff on Twitter which is bound to bite me on the arse in years to come. Mmm, I thought I’d said achievable…

If you are stuck for activities tonight then feel free to leave a review of the novel on Amazon (!). And thanks to all those that took the time to in 2017 – they are very much appreciated, as are the visits and comments on here.

All the best, see you next year.

My novel, The Life Assistance Agency – selected by WHSmith Fresh Talent 2017 –  is available to alleviate Sunday feelings here –

and here,thomas-hocknell-9781911129035

and on ebook here –






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