I'm not on first name terms with any author. I can only assume the successful ones live in some other place. Certainly not Shropshire. And not any part of London I inhabited hitherto. A different planet maybe. In fact, I've sometimes wondered if they actually exist at all.

Except I did have occasion to meet a writer last year. A real writer. A proper heavyweight. A friend was getting married and I was asked to do a small speech at the ceremony. On the day, it became clear my bit was to follow immediately after a certain Julian Barnes. Who was going to be reading a Larkin poem. Honestly, I felt like an open-mic comedian being told he was due to follow Eddie Izzard. Doing Tony Hancock jokes. 

Anyway, I sat near to the great man at lunch. I'm a big fan. I've read all his books and have lovingly colllected a full set of first editions. So I was tongue-tied. Luckily, Anne was there to break the ice. She told him that the only book of his she'd read was that “Cookery one, you know, something in the Kitchen”, and that “I've asked around and only about half the people here know who you are, let alone have read anything by you.” For Anne has a way with people.

Joking apart, she really does, and as a somewhat shy Booker winner warmed to her, they got to talking about getting published and how hard it was. And Julian (!) said he thought it was down to “Talent, timing and luck. In that order.” Not only does this seem equally true of gambling, but it leaves me needing a whole load of timing and a lotta luck...    

Yes, of course we know where we're going with our novel. Look...

I was reading about Daniel Day Lewis and how he stayed in character throughout the shooting of Lincoln. Sally Field was asked about it and said that most actors do it to a degree and especially those who are devotees of Method Acting. It's just that Daniel does it a bit more than most.

And it got me thinking about 'Wish You Were', the novel I'm writing with my friend Karin. And I was thinking, should we be Method Writing our novel? The novel is mainly a two-hander – a long married couple. The man, Trip, is dead but has left some letters for his wife, and appears in flashback. The woman, Ruth, has a number of adventures as she comes to terms with his death.

Now, generally speaking, I've been writing Trip's letters and Karin's been filling in Ruth's story. When we write the flashback dialogue scenes, I tend to be him and Karin her.

So, should I be inhabiting the character of Trip, and should Karin be living her life as though she's Ruth? It could certainly help me separate Trip from the other voice that keeps interrupting when I'm writing the letters or trying to be sparkling and funny in the dialogue scenes - my own.

I think I'll give it a go. I've always suspected my wife, Anne, would have been happier married to a Tory boy like Trip. She'd be much richer for a start. And it's not all bad news for me. Ok, so Trip is dead, but that does leave me with ample time for snoozing.

My sweet little book – The Northern Line to Shropshire – received another kicking this morning. The last of the agencies I'd sent it to has rejected it. The poor thing is back in its box, licking its wounds and feeling sorry for itself, much like my dog after his snowy walk this morning.

It's true, it's not an obviously commercial book. It has no narrative drive, and it's fair to say nothing happens - both of which are sort of the point. But of all the things I've written, it is by far the best. I totally believe in it, despite everyone else (including half my friends) dismissing it.

Thing is, I know if I came across a book just like it on the shelves, I'd be intrigued, would buy it after the merest browse, read it in a single sitting, recommend it to everyone and then leave it by the toilet so that I could dip into it occasionally. And most people I know would say I'm a pretty good judge of a book.

So, I'll have to self-publish. I had decided to put it up on Kindle, but I really think it's a book that lends itself to opening at random pages and enjoying a few pages. No doubt it will be akin to vanity publishing, but at the least it would be nice to present a copy to everyone who gets a mention in the book.

Before I take the dog into the blizzard currently raging outside my window, let's enjoy a poem by Louis MacNiece, which seems appropriate, even if it isn't really about snow.

“It doesn't smell the same.”

That's the very first line of our novel 'Wish You Were'. Well one of them. Let's just say it's under review. In fact our first chapter more resembles a pile of lego bricks as we take turns dismantling and rebuilding in a new order. 

It's not going to win any future “Best first Line” awards is it. By comparison, here's Denis Lehane's favourite first line – from James Crumley's wonderful novel about drinking, 'The Last Good Kiss.'

That's more like it. It's important not to get carried away though. There's a wonderful character in Albert Camus' La Peste who is obsessively trying to write the perfect first line. And boy does his need work. Worse still, once he cracks it, he knows it will be so perfect the second line will only let it down, and hence the novel is doomed.

I can relate to this. I have a dystopian vision of the future, 99% unwritten, in my shoe-box of abandoned projects. It starts “Eartha is running”, which personally I think is rather good. So good in fact, I was unable to get any further, apart from killing off poor old Eartha halfway down page four.   

I've a feeling I'm going to talk a lot about editing and feedback as we travel the road to a place on the shelves at Waterstones. 

I spent yesterday in a meeting room in a corporate office in a humdrum town. As part of my real life I'm developing some stuff for a management consultancy. It was time to sit there whilst they looked at what I'd produced. Line by line, word by word. 

This is fine. I like second, third, fourth opinions. I'm slapdash by nature. My first attempt always leaves plenty of room for improvement. I like feedback. Collaboration. 

At yesterday's meeting I had one offering that I thought was original and different. Sexy even. And they didn't like it. Not a bit. In fact they hated it (but were far too polite to say so). Still, they're the client. I nodded, backed down, suggested a change, moved on, passed GO and collected my cheque. 

I need to be similarly hard-hearted when it comes to my more artistic leanings. I've been unpublished for ever and so I find myself seeking affirmation in a way I don't in my professional life. This holds us "amateurs" back I feel. We're flabby and needy. We need to be more like honed and focused athletes aiming for Olympic Glory (or Strictly Come Dancing) standing there, taking the feedback square on the chin. Applying, improving, moving on.