It's a tough business, writing.

All those hours, days, years even, of sweat and toil, writing and rewriting to turn out something heartfelt, original and possibly even brilliant, only to discover that you have merely completed the first leg of a far more arduous journey, one that will probably end with your finely wrought prose being discarded and read by nobody.

Take this podcast, for instance. Blimmin' ages, it takes. The writing, the recording, the editing, the coming up with something pithy and enticing for the blurb (is this one succeeding? probably not). And for what? A handful of listeners, a few compliments, a modicum of attention in the ghastly vastness that is the world wide web. Mere crumbs, dear listeners - and you can't live on crumbs.

(I am, by the way, most grateful for the listeners, the compliments and the attention. Do keep them coming.)

Publication, though: that's the Holy Grail for many an author, and in this day and age it is not easily won. Still, if you have talent, if you're prepared to learn the market and perservere, if you can counter rejection with resilience, and keep making your writing stronger and more marketable, then you're in with a chance. That's what they say.

But what if they're not telling you quite everything you need to know...?

A story (as yet, unpublished) about the murky underworld of literature, and why you can't always trust your agent.

"You know what I reckon? They’re so up against it, right, with the state of the hospitals and underfunding and so on, that they don’t know who’s in for what. So they do everything on everyone to be on the safe side."

You will, no doubt, have your own views on the state of the NHS and the reasons (calculated or otherwise) for its 14 years (coincidental or otherwise) of neglect and underfunding. Do feel free to bang some pots and pans on your doorstep if it makes you feel better, but whatever your political viewpoint, I think we can all agree that our health service has been through some rough times lately.

Even so, there are some things one doesn't expect from a routine operation.

But mistakes happen, don't they?

Folklore tells of a town where everyone was a mathematician. Each person was an expert, whether in arithmetic, algebra, geometry or topology; thanks to this expertise, measurements were always very precisely measured, definitions very precisely defined and costs very precisely calculated. 

Yet, as a mathematician called Simplex discovered, just because people think they've got everything worked out, doesn't mean they won't find themselves confronted by new ideas...

A story about quadrilaterals, and the difference between knowledge and understanding.

Shame.

Most of us experience it. A few of us are burdened with it in unusually (and, some would say, unfairly) high quantities. Whilst religious and political authorities have at times encouraged shame as a means of self-control (or, frankly, a way of ensuring that fun things feel less fun), these days it is generally felt that shame is a bad thing - that negative self-evaluation can stunt our ability to make progress, can be a motivation to quit, can cause pain, distrust, and feelings of worthlessness.

But according to an obscure text by Edward J. Peng, the impact of shame is worse even than that. Much, much worse.

A deep dive into Peng's theories opens up a world of startling implications for the way in which we ought to understand life and death itself. It suggests reasons for some of the deepest injustices in human society. But they also leave a lot of questions unanswered, and when one advocate for his work begins digging for answers, it leads to more horrifying possibilities than even Edward J. Peng could have imagined...

A story about living with shame. And dying from it.

It's a wonderful thing, a school. A place that allows you to learn, to be taught concepts that enable you to move beyond your experience, a place to develop skills and knowledge, and to grow as a person.

But what is even more wonderful is a school where you are allowed to live as well. A school with your own bed, where you can go to sleep with your head full of learning, and wake up ready to carry on being educated. Every night a sleepover with your friends! The fun it must be.

It is rather perplexing, then, when young Thomas Jenkins decides that he doesn't want to go back to his school, even though it promises all kinds of unbridled fun on his return. What are his parents supposed to make of such ingratitude? And even if for some bizarre reason he doesn't like his school, surely he could at least pretend that he does.....?

A story about learning, playing, and the things that make grown-ups turn out so well.

Wax on, wax off.

They didn’t make films in the 80s. They made movies – enchanted windows of wish-fulfilment, in which impossibly attractive characters, subtly highlighted by golden sunlight or the opulent colours of fairgrounds and amusement arcades, led us into adventures that were worlds away from our humdrum classrooms and playgrounds.

Wax on, wax off.

Their appeal might be baffling to everyone who has grown up with the sterile perfection of digital media. But my generation keep revisiting the same familiar faces - the Goonies, the Extra Terrestrial... the Karate Kid. These were the people that shaped us, that gave us aspirations and ideals, that showed us who we wanted to be.

Wax on, wax off.

Comfort viewing, it was supposed to be. But these days, some old haunts turn out to be less reassuringly familiar than expected...

A sneak preview of what lies in store in the long-awaited second season of Neurotic Literature, dropping soon!

It is surprising how much discomfort people are prepared to put up with when the cause it out of sight: surveys suggest that three in four men don't go to the doctor when suffering pain or illness, even when it might be life threatening. Arthur Westrip was very much one of the three-in-four men.

Perhaps if he had been in possession of a partner, somebody in a position to nag him or at least to see how painful the skin behind his ears had looked from the start, he would have gone to the doctor sooner. But he did not have a partner and he was, he had to admit, pretty unlikely to get one now that his condition was visible, and pretty gross at that.

Fortunately, Arthur's overbearing sister is on hand, and a visit to the doctor is, in this narrative at least, a predictable inevitability. What that visit reveals, though, is far from predictable, and when Arthur finds out what is actually happening to him, a whole new world opens up - a world of opportunity, an exciting social life, maybe even the long-hoped-for partner.

Not to mention a very different kind of pain.

A story about dry skin and self-loathing, relationships and family... and the things people say in cold blood.

Had it been a continuous noise, that would not have been a problem. Lucy could have gone to sleep with a constant rumble, or a low hum, or even a regular trickle of water. But it wasn’t any of those things. Or rather, it was all of them, but mixed up and unpredictable, as though the radiator was trying to say something.

Even the way the radiator looked was frightening. It was a huge old thing crouching at the side of the room; not the unassuming rectangular kind they’d had in the old house, but a giant, iron skeleton, all ridges and angles. It was painted in a sickly creamy grey, the colour of hospitals, and the paint was flaking, like dead skin, exposing dark patches like raw meat underneath. 

The only thing that was perhaps even more frightening than the radiator was the prospect of going downstairs again to tell Mummy and Richard about the noise it was making. Because Richard was definitely beginning to lose his temper with her.

But at some point soon, Lucy was going to need to confront at least one of them.

A ghost story of sorts, in which (as in all of the best ghost stories) the people who are still alive are probably scarier than the dead ones. As are the inanimate objects that were never supposed to be alive in the first place.

We all have them. Those memories which resurface again and again, the petty resentments that every adult clings onto, which rankle with the same vibrancy each time we relive them.

But what if, instead of merely reliving them, we could change them?

George Goode has been given the opportunity to try. To go back and fix the things he said, or left unsaid, as well as the things he did or didn't do that he wishes he hadn't, or indeed, had. And what possible reason could anyone have to turn down such a chance? Apart, of course, from the rather steep cost, not to mention the weight of cultural and religious suspicion of demons which tends to scream at every bone in your body to walk away quickly without looking back.

But demons are just fallen angels, aren't they? Consider this: here is a chance for George to right wrongs, mend mistakes, to be a better person. As well as potentially to have quite a lot more sex than he managed to on his first attempt at life.

It seems like a pretty good deal at any price.

But when you deal with the devil, things are not always what they seem...