James Robertson Kevin MacNeil A.L Kennedy Kirstin Innes Muriel Spark Ali Smith Nan Shepherd Andrew Greig Iain Crichton-Smith Lewis Grassic-Gibbon Jessie Kesson John Aberdein Norman MacCaig Aussie Writers I love: Georgina Penney

A playlist for a road trip through Aberlayne, Hardweird, Upper Langdykes and the wee brain they came from. Ain’t That Enough – Teenage Fanclub There is a light that never goes out- The Smiths Bats in the Attic- King Creosote and Jon Hopkins Country Girl- Primal Scream Girl from Mars- Ash Hold On- KT Tunstall Down by the Water- PJ Harvey It’s a Shame About Ray- The Lemonheads Love Steals us from Loneliness- Idlewild Metal Mickey- Suede My Secret is my Silence- Roddy Woomble Sp

Corrie Ruthven is a bittersweet romantic comedy, a Scottish Bridget Jones, with brains. In the car, Ray scolds me for not answering my phone for days. He has figured out Roddy has something to do with it. I stall him until we’re in the farmhouse kitchen, in front of the Rayburn, with wine and crisps. Then I tell him everything, tearfully, about what happened on Wednesday night and why I am scared to go back to my flat now. I am not picking up any messages on my answerphone,

The Library Boys is a sequel to English and History. For Chris and Ally, crises of identity and sexuality cause conflict and isolation. The power of the written word shines a light at the end of the tunnel. Please help me, I don’t know my name. If I knew my name, I’d know where to be. I’d be classified by my Dewey number, and I’d slot in beside the other cherished spines. I think they did the right thing when they left me here. Nothing bad could ever happen to a wee boy in a

English and History is a subversive romance, set in a Scottish town, two estranged friends, both English teachers, reconnect through adversity and their shared love of books. 'Chris, what can I do? Don't say fuck off because I won't, but what can I do?' I want him to shut up, to go away, I clamp my hands over my ears. ‘Maybe it would help if you called Eilidh? Maybe she's just scared to call you?' I curl tighter into a foetal shape beneath the quilt, shielding my face. How ca

For my Granny Keith I don’t believe in life after death, hauntings or voices from the grave. I think what we need from people we loved, is within easy reach. Sometimes it is easier to get comfort from them than from the living. Her life was endless gifts to mine, and no one can take her away. And if I feel, her strong hand on my shoulder, or stroking the back of my hand. If she’s with me when I wake alone in the dark It doesn’t mean that I believe in ghosts, just that I loved

Have you lost your mind? Where’s your sense of humour? My mind goes everywhere it can, it loves to travel. My sense of humour is not on call; it turns up when it feels like it. Is your heart really in it? Listen to it, what does it say? My heart is wherever I am, beating in my chest. It says nothing. It beats and thumps and carries on. It won’t break or melt, harden or soften. You’re not yourself these days. I am always myself. It’s the days that change, and I go with them. #

I went to festivals when I was younger, bare faced, muddy and skint in charity shop velvet and cords. No subtlety in our taste for pretty boys and girls with loud guitars. We drank cider, snogged strangers, threw up. We bathed in sweat and lager in the mosh pit. We would not have taken a good selfie. We did not have sequins around our eyes. It’s age, I’m sure, but they don’t look like they’re having much fun. From her boyfriend’s shoulders, two rows from the front, she’s upda

Politely turning down offers is not an option. I can’t look after the kids, I can’t do anything. My chest is rattling and my skin oozing sweat, my legs weak and unreliable. I don’t even feel like writing. Speaking hurts. Doctor saw me within hours, out of hours, efficient and kind. Pneumonia, he says, not flu. I’ve been cared for all weekend. I have been looked after. It feels good, when everything else hurts. The best thing about being ill is that you can’t help but be helpe

My body is fighting a virus. My joints ache, my head hurts. Through the night I couldn’t sleep for shivering, my teeth chattered, despite a hot water bottle. I fell asleep and woke in the night to peel off my pyjamas, soaked in sweat. I wake up so grateful that the kids are staying with Granny and Granda. I don’t know how I’ll get out of bed, but I do. I count the hours between doses of paracetamol and ibuprofen, drink water, grab a sleep when she’s napping. The thing is, wha