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  I went to Salvador Dali’s home-cum-studio in Cadaques, Spain a few years ago, while on a writing retreat.  I didn’t like Dali, but was curious.  The best thing there was his wardrobe covered with dried mustard flowers, and that wasn’t done by him,  but a workman who renewed it every few years. In fact I liked it so much, I treated my own wardrobe to sprays of dried white flowers.   But Dali’s paintings I find banal, and suspect.  I had a fantasy of a right-wing hotelier retiring nearby, and meeting a right-on type wanting to run creative writing workshops.  These would be a...

  The top note to self  in my notebook, after my co-critiquing session with writers Anne Aylor* and David Wilson**  was  rewrite the language. This is profound. Not rewrite the play.  No. My drama Blood, Gold and Oil is a work in progress, much like the Middle East itself.  It’s about the present, and TE Lawrence’s take on things should he return as a ghost.   I told you so in so many words, and what if Gertrude Bell and others of her class hadn’t drawn the line the sand after WW1: blue zones for the French, red for the British.