Loath as I am to indulge in the national pastime of Scottish exceptionalism, we do pretty well when it comes to producing writers. From the mainstream to the fringes, and across the world, many key literary figures were born, or are based, north of the border.
Creative Scotland is over. The organisation has managed to make itself hated by both politicians and artists. It exists only to feed itself and its infantile staff
There are the commercial giants. JK Rowling, whose Harry Potter and (as Robert Galbraith) Cormoran Strike books show her dizzying talent for making the epic deeply personal. Ian Rankin, whose knotty Rebus novels are more a chronicle of the difficulties of living as a moral man in an immoral world than they are whodunnits. And there’s Val McDermid, whose crime writing goes to the darkest corners of the psyche.
Then there are the poets like Jackie Kay, Don Paterson, and Kathleen Jamie whose international influence and standing is unquestionable.
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