Here’s the view from my window as I write this. As you can see I am not in a bordello.

Part One, if you remember, advanced the notion that the business of writing contains within it an almost mystical reward. For a man it is his, admittedly minor, sublimation for not being able to give birth, in the real sense. For a woman who is childless, maybe the same, I have no idea. For a woman who has been fruitful in flesh and blood terms, maybe it acts as a delightful coda. Perhaps someone could enlighten me!

Part Two is a bit of a hazy ramble I am beginning to feel. One or two friends have written asking me whether my ebooks are half as successful as 50 Shades of Grey has been. I feel confused at what my response might be. Do I just say no!, truculently, and forget it? Do I enter into a disquisition on how I am pursuing the noble, artier end of writing not the seamier end? (This is a dodgy response since sex plays a key role in two of my books under the name of Eric le Sange, an appellation which separates my genre writing from my heroic (!) offering, Azimuth!) Do I just say that I don’t need to write a bonkbuster for I can get by in my garret here in the Pyrenees on a modest pension and my reason to be cheerful has already been covered in Part One. Maybe I could say that my offspring (curious how some of the progeny of sixties hippiesque creatures like myself are a bit coy and defensive if their father writes any sex scenes at all) would find it difficult to have a father renowned for his prurient pen wielding.

The sins of the father have probably been bad enough without that. So, taking immense pleasure in the act of writing is sufficient, even though having a much greater audience for it would be, as we used to say, a real turn-on!