I have been watching a number of campaigns unfold recently and wonder at the changes in how we try to get our own way.  Because let's face it, getting our own way is more important than ever, as the Brownies replace the pledge to serve God and the Queen with one where you vow to be 'true to yourself'

Most recently, I've seen my Twitter feed explode with a woman on UK banknotes.  What struck me was the speed with which the message spread and how many people it pulled in.  Before that, there was a campaign to drop the beer-duty escalator to protect the British ale industry (successful).

So what makes a successful campaign?  Is it the quality of the cause?  When I sit on the train to get to work, almost every advert is for a charity, encouraging me to text a donation.  But how do I choose between donkeys, children, bees or the homeless?  There are too many good causes - you cannot support all of them.  

Or is it the slickness of the marketing?  If something presents an idea in a new way, will this work (until the others catch up)?  We have seen the appeals to us get ever grander and more spectacular.  No-one would give you money for a sponsored walk now - it has to be a walk along the Great Wall of China or across Spain backwards.  But this cannot keep growing and there is a sense of 'yawn, what am I being asked to support now?'

One thing is for sure though - with all of the visibility, the single fundamental element of any campaign is belief, because if you don't believe, you will be caught out.

The men looked at the woman hungrily.  It was, what she was aiming for.  Then one touched her.  She screamed, considering herself a fragile museum piece.

The last month has been a period mainly focused on photography.  I have two main creative routes - writing fiction and taking pictures.  

I enjoy photography and am trying to progress beyond just snaps to more artistic and interesting photos.  Partial success, but a long way to go.  As I have been reading extensively to improve my writing, I've been looking at a lot of exhibitions and portfolios to try to improve my photography.  Imitation - possibly, but I see it as trying to understand how things are created so that I can help my own style to develop.

Because the more that I write and the more I take pictures, I find I am developing a style.  This was something that always made me nervous - doesn't that mean you are just producing the same thing every time?  As I review the pictures and edit the text, I find myself thinking more of companies with brand guidelines and how a consistent approach can make the underlying message easier to read.  So, now that I have found my groove, I'm going to follow it.  For the first time in my life, I have style...

Hemmed in, ignored.  Warm, not required to do anything, speak to anyone, for an hour of oblivion.  The commute was his favourite time of the day

My head has been down recently for much typing and the novel has progressed accordingly.  I've been avoiding all of the flashy distractions of competitions and, er updating this blog and the word count has increased accordingly.

Funny how we all need these little motivations.  20k was a big milestone - I hit that this weekend and it prompted a celebration out of all proportion to the scale of achievement.  Because in the grand scale of things, it's not much (especially when on the same day, an interview with Ian Rankin casually revealed that he knocked out a first draft in around 6 weeks).  

From childhood, we respond to praise, long after we are considered too old for direct bribes of sweets.  As adults, we seek affirmation, retweets, 'likes' and comments.  But I hope we are also becoming more sensitive to the fact that what may be important to us is unlikely to be that important to anyone else, so yes, you may think you are very clever, but don't go shouting about it.  So, I tweeted my 20k and then got down to write some more, because that is the real danger: that in celebrating the milestones, we lose sight of the end goal.

This story is about success in one way - something that can survive almost anywhere...

They pushed aside paving stones, weakening walls by picking away at the mortar.  They loitered on the lawn, loud, brash and unmissable.  It was dandelion season.

It's been a 'fun' couple of weeks, with deep feelings of inadequacy reinforced by regular writing rejections.  In addition, I went to the London Book Fair, where you realise that, as an unpublished author, your status is somewhere south of dung beetle, because you keep bringing them crap rather than taking it away.

But amidst all of this, something rather good has been happening.  Without the distraction of entering competitions etc, I've been getting on with the second novel.  And it has been growing, not fast, but steadily.  And other good things have occurred - I really like my character and keep thinking of other things I want to do with her.  The supporting cast are coming up with helpful suggestions themselves for what they want to do - it's great when they do that.

So maybe rejection really is character-building, just not in the obvious way.  And this story has nothing to do with anything really...

Her breezy confidence lasted until she was safely out of sight.  ‘He will turn on me’ she thought ‘I have left him nowhere else to go’.

My plan was to blog every day.  And I look at my last entry and find it was three weeks ago.  This worries me slightly: do I not have anything to say?  Do I lead a very dull life?  Surely a real writer would be able to find something to write about?

And the answers are yes, probably and maybe.

Reading 'how to' books on writing, one thing that is continually emphasised is the use of conflict.  There must be conflict to keep the reader turning the pages, to show the characters' true depths.  We can all relate to conflict, whether it is something we can relate to or just to make us feel cosier in our lives.

And that I think is the key.  I am blessed with a very comfortable, stable life and so the irritations that occur feel so trivial that I don't want to bother anyone else with them.  I was hoping there would be more little quirky things from the train, but I find tweeting them is more fun.  So, in this case, silence is definitely golden...

The time was passing with the leisurely confidence that there is plenty to spare.  Clouds were still firmly controlling the sky, but she felt the sunshine.

It's been a funny couple of days.  Not funny ha-ha or even peculiar, just funny in the sense that I haven't felt so out of time for a while.  The last days of unemployment were like this, when the four walls you see are all you will see all day.  And then, at the end of the day, when normally you would come home, I have been sallying forth to go to things (3 Essex Book Fest events in one week) - it's all the wrong way round.

When you are in this state, little things can take on vast proportions.  A letter regarding a gift subscription to a magazine for my husband for example.  I bought 6 months, in case he didn't like it.  I've already ignored one 'resubscribe' letter, to get another one saying 'you only have 3 issues left (ie half!) and now have 14 days to sign up for 12 months or we'll write to the recipient.'  I did actually check 'blackmail' in the dictionary and this is it.

The joys of Twitter - I've got an outline apology and, if I give them the details, a pledge not to send the letter.  But nothing about not sending it to others...

She pressed send, imagining the thud as the tweet landed, weighted down with strong words.  Then the coin-flip of whether anyone would hear.  In silence, waiting.

One of the joys of commuting (yes, there are a few) is that you have a perfect chance to observe your fellow humans with their guard down.  It's because it is such an unnatural environment, we all pretend that everyone else is invisible for the duration of the journey.  I'm as guilty as the rest, happily putting my make up on each morning on the train, when I would never do the same sitting in a cafe.

Just occasionally, conversations start, though normally it takes an event to bring hardened commuters together.  If the train is stuck for example, people chat, offer lifts as we all remember that we are humans, not robots.  That is why the experience below was so peculiar - it was all so prosaic and ordinary, I had done nothing to provoke a reaction.  I was on the train and went slowly passed a bloke standing on the platform.  We made eye-contact and the look of mingled fury and rage I got was incredible. I had no idea what I'd done to provoke it - maybe he'd just had a bad day, but my writer's mind immediately starting racing through scenarios and consequences...

Their eyes met, sliding over each other as the train wheezed to a stop.  Prickling with threat, she waited, tense with anticipation until the train restarted