My sister and I are the only two surviving children of nine. (I think it was nine. It may have been one or two more. Or less.) Some of us died shortly after birth. Some lingered a little longer only to be felled by some ague or fever. One (the first Jack who lived before I was born) fell into the Thames from the attic window. Only Beth and I had lasted to an age where adulthood looked likely. I’d been apprenticed to my father. I was destined to become a master printer and inherit his shop on London Bridge. Beth remained unmarried.

What textbook or manual has taught you the most about writing, and why?

I avoid it for the most part, although not for any strategic reason... Although I'm tempted on occasion. I would love to know the stance of others here, their reasons and (for those that work on multiple pieces) experiences.

One of the hardest tasks, I know. Leave a one sentence summary of one of your pieces here for constructive feedback. And contribute your own assessments of the work of others.

Natalya knelt just inside the mouth of the cave, fussing with a piece of chalk. Her calloused hands made slow, sure arcs, carving a circle on the ground. She was a Lorne-viola, which was a nice way of saying she occasionally stuck out; violet skin, onyx hair still up in the large Velcro rollers, eyes like smouldering coals. She still needed to do her makeup. She wore a turquoise jumpsuit that left her back and arms bare. She’d left the house in a rush, half-preparing for a party, half-preparing for a hunt; the work-life balance was still being figured out. She opened the hatch of the little carrier by her side and pulled out a small white rabbit, holding him at eye level. He busily munched away on a piece of lettuce, surveying her with calm disdain. “This is kidnapping, this is,” he said after a while, which Natalya wasn’t quite sure how to engage with.