Who? What? Where? Wye!

This writing business will be the death of us.

Even out of season, Hay-on-Wye is the Shangri-La of book lovers and writers. Here, it is unusual to see someone who isn't reading, or carrying books around (possibly for effect - Jack Kerouac man, you know who you are). There are also numerous others, scribbling feverishly into their notepads (the paper kind), lifting their heads momentarily to snatch at inspiration as it does a runner down Lion Street. Judging by the clientele seen in the cafes, if the town isn't sponsored by The Guardian it's missing a trick.

There is competition among the bookshops, certainly, but there is also a sense of community. Collectively, they are greater than he sum of their shelves. Everyone knows why they're here - books - and that somehow gives the place a sense of tranquility. It's probably helped by some shops flying the anti-technology banner and proudly proclaiming, 'Kindles are banned here.'

To be honest, being confronted by so many books and bookshops is overwhelming. There's a part of me that wondered what the point is of writing books, when this deluge of literature already exists. And yet, there's also a poetry and magic about seeing books I have known and loved, at different points in my life, still up on the shelves for others to enjoy. Those treasured titles are time capsules for me, drawing me back not only to the book itself, but to all the personal circumstances surrounding it as well - who recommended or gave it to me, what was going on in my life at the time, and what my emotional experience of the book was (and is now). My elegant commentary aside, there are a lot of crap books there too.

Facing the sheer volume of new and used books, as we wandered from shop to shop, is also strangely liberating. If any of my books make it to print  - and I do mean print - I hope they will one day find their way to a dusty shelf where an inquisitive reader might discover them. And if I happen to be giving a talk at Hay-on-Wye, about the launch of my eighth consecutive bestseller, so much the better. (Second would be fine, at this point, along with the bargain bucket.)

Hay-on-Wye reminds writers that there really is room for everyone is the book is well-written and has the courage of the author's convictions. Not everyone will get your book, and that's the way it's supposed to be.

I particularly loved Richard Booth's Bookshop, with its tiled exterior, its interior head-butting cat, the lovely wide staircase and the library-like high ceilings. My favourite bookshop, however, was Murder and Mayhem. For me, it epitomises what I love about good writing - whatever the genre: distinctive, true to its genre and unapologetically enthusiastic about it as well.

When writers make it personal

In March 2008, I crossed a line. My commissioned feature, Last of the Line - an intimate piece about my relationship with my late brother, David, and reflections on life without him - was published in The Guardian.

I'd pitched the original idea six months earlier, but a combination of moving editors and the email Bermuda Triangle added to the delay. It was an interesting process, start to finish. Part of you feels like you are selling off the family silver at best, or whoring your soul at worst. Another part of you feels as if the world will judge you.

However, I wanted to tell some of David's story and the amazing way he dealt with the cancer that claimed him. The ambitious writer in me also wanted to produce something intensely personal and yet meaningful to ther people. To see whether I could translate my experience so that a nameless reader might understand it and feel it. In short, to see whether I could cut it as a 'proper' writer.

Unsurprisingly, it was a challenging piece to write, to accurately portray David's character and our interactions without overdramatising or diminishing them. I carefully prepared the ground with friends and family who knew him well. People were generally supportive although there was some unexpected fallout much later on.

What made it all worthwhile was a letter I received from a newspaper reader, about the sudden death of his own brother, unlike the nine years I had to get used to being without David. When I read that letter it was a sobering moment, to realise both the power of the written word and its ability to bridge the gap between strangers. This is what real writing is about - not fame or fortune or books on shelves - connecting with people. Although it has to be said that it paid well.

Writing that piece changed how I write fiction. I'm less afraid now to draw directly on personal experiences or incorporare aspects of a person or memory. I don't know if it makes my writing any more powerful but I feel liberated as a writer.

Here's a link to the feature:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2008/mar/15/familyandrelationships.family1

Objectively, it's an okay piece. A little hammy, here and there, and I still cringe at the ending. In my defence, I wrote to their requirements and I wasn't afforded an edit - the first time the new editor contacted me was very close to publication.

Today would have been David's birthday, and without doubt he would have hating me writing this. It won't shock you to know that I can live with that. Here's to you David.