Diary – 31 January 2019

For legal reasons I shouldn’t say much about the Alex Salmond case, but it does bolster the argument that the world right now operates beyond most fiction writers’ (and readers’?) imaginations. Fiction needs to be credible; I should persuade the reader that the events in my stories could happen, if they haven’t already. Reality, however, seems otherwise inclined. Salmond’s journey — from taking Scotland closer to independence than many thought possible to RT chatshow host — would test the mettle of most contemporary novelists, before even adding the cocktail of charges against him. Salmond, a shrewd operator and orator with a side-order of braggadocio, might seem a gift of a character to a fiction writer. Some may find his recent decline to have the shape of classical drama. But those of us who consume fiction (novels, plays, films and so on) often demand psychological clarity and narrative closure, whereas in these days of conspiracy theory, distrust and paranoia, objective reality has become a chimera.

Then we have Trump and Brexit to deal with (or not). I’m not a speculative writer: I can’t predict how things will turn out, only try to explain afterwards what happened. I have just embarked on a US book tour. First stop: San Diego. Fearful of what Trump’s shutdown might mean, I was stunned to fly through immigration in only a couple of minutes. However, as sometimes happens, my hotel turned out to be near a freeway but not much else. No shops, restaurants or cafés in the vicinity; no taxi rank or obvious bus stop. So I joined the 21st century and downloaded the Uber app. My driver to the Gaslamp Quarter (some eight miles distant) hails from Korea. We discuss Trump (at his behest), then turn to Brexit. My driver watches a lot of political TV, including Westminster.