Well, if you put it like that, I guess they do. I'm reminded of my portrait artist friend who despises painters who copy photographs because, as she says, all the decisions are made for them. By condensing a book into a 90 second script, the video makers are deciding which are the key scenes; when they choose locations, they make decisions about atmosphere and backdrop, what we see and what we don't. Most significantly, when they cast the characters, they impose their own impressions upon the pictures that would otherwise build in the reader's head.

If you've already seen the Dead Scared video then, when you read the book, the faces you see are likely to be those of the actors chosen by the production team to play Lacey, Joesbury (no, I don't think he's ginger, either!), Evi and Jessica.  The clown will be the one that stands menacingly on the bridge towards the end. The partnership between you and me has been interrupted and maybe that's a problem.

Video trailers for books are relatively new and, given their cost, still quite rare. They're brilliant for grabbing attention of the reading public, for communicating the atmosphere of a book to potential readers and generating interest. They're sales tools. They work particularly well with thrillers, which by their nature, have lots of action that translates so well onto the screen. But they do, as the Facebook commentator argued, make decisions on behalf of the reader that some might feel they have no right to do.

The same argument could be applied to films or TV adaptations of books. The film-maker is interpreting the half-painted story and making decisions for those who will watch the film. Because one person's interpretation of a story cannot possibly coincide exactly with anyone else's, adaptations of books will invariably disappoint.

Personally, though, I've never really accepted this argument. Good adaptations, I believe, can achieve much that books alone cannot, for the simple reason that talented TV and film producers have an ability beyond that of most of us, to visualize ideas. Two examples to demonstrate my point:

Lord of the Rings: I've been a massive fan of the books since I was in my twenties. I was one of those read-them-every-summer-types. Yet, the Peter Jackson films blew me away, because they enabled me to see pictures of such beauty, intricacy and detail that my own, much more limited imagination, simply could not visualise. I could never have seen Rivendell in all its verdurous, resplendent glory without these films, I was never able to picture the massive scale of Saruman's preparation for war, or the dark, creeping horror that was Minas Morgul. Someone with a greater ability to imagine (or do I mean visualize?) than I, enabled this to happen for me.

Blood Harvest: Young film maker Nele Hecht conceived and directed the first trailer to be made of my books and, in just ninety seconds, took the story I'd created and added so much to it. More, I believe, than a reader without her talent to visualize could do alone. Should someone with Nele's talent ever make a film of Blood Harvest, then it is quite likely we will see my story made hugely more moving and exciting than it is on the printed page.

Will these views make me popular with readers? Possibly not, but there is a tendency to "big up" books and despise adaptations that I think we should guard against. I think we should accept that some film and drama makers (not all) have tremendous talent and when several talented people offer to us their interpretation of a great story, we should welcome it.

It doesn't bother me that someone might see Lacey with dark blonde hair and someone else as a brunette. It won't change the picture of her that I carry in my head. I've now seen two very different actresses play her in trailers and whilst I enjoyed their portrayals, she's still the same to me that she ever was. I like to see adaptations not as solutions to the original story, but as developments of it, as stages in the process towards the ultimate conclusion.

So, please watch and enjoy all three brilliant trailers made of my books and appreciate them for what they are: simply one interpretation of a story by several talented people. Take what you like from what they're offering you, and stick to what you prefer from your own imagination. They're not interrupting the contract between you and me, they're just helping it along. Now, I know you want to see it one more time....

And, just so we're clear: Joesbury isn't ginger!

"I'm getting an urge to buy a new red outfit for the Bloody Women panel" I Tweeted. 'What do you think, ladies, shall we coordinate?"

Regretted it instantly. These are serious literary ladies. Both have successful TV series, both are recipients of the Gold Dagger (most coveted prize in crime writing), both are exceptionally articulate and intelligent. And here am I, announcing to the world I'm a frivolous, middle-aged bimbo!

Well, it got worse. They joined in.  Ann started listing the red contents of her wardrobe, whilst Val threatened to wear a red voodoo skulls ensemble from New Orleans with matching red shoes. Ann declared her intention of going immediately to Newcastle to stock up, and Val began boasting about a red and black number that looks like blood spatter. Meantime, @scarlitfest was merrily re-tweeting to all and sundry.

People will be coming for the fashion! Gok will probably be in the audience giving us marks out of ten. Which leaves me with a big problem. I own four red items: 1) shoes, 2) handbag, 3) knickers and 4) bra!  Let's be honest, now - that's not very Scarborough! On the other hand, if I turn up in any other colour, I'll never hear the end of it.

With no time to shop, there's only one thing for it. Seek assistance from Glam One (sister Louise). A couple of urgent text messages later, she sends pictures of the four alternatives waiting for me when I head North. Personally, I think number one looks like a waitress at Betty's Tea Rooms and number three looks like something Nurse Gladys Emmanual would wear. Any thoughts on numbers two and four, bloggers?

So when carefully-laid plans changed and I was faced with either abandoning a much-looked-forward-to night out with the girls, or leaving my 10 year old in the care of his (admittedly sensible) teenage cousin, I had qualms. I considered all possible alternatives and, in doing so, rather offended teenage niece. But whether the following "emergency plan" (arriving by email the next day) was called for, is another matter entirely. I'll let my blog readers judge:

"HOME ALONE" EMERGENCY ACTION PLAN FOR ALL SITUATIONS (CODE YELLOW TO BLACK)

ALIEN INVASION (YELLOW)

Arm all Nerf guns

Use dog as bait to draw attention away from humans

Hide in airing cupboard (iron all clothing items to pass the time)

ZOMBIE INVASION (YELLOW)

Raid Auntie Lou's make up and camouflage face to blend in

Adopt 'zombie stance' and moan loudly

Join groups of zombies in street and go with the flow

Sneak out of group when safe location identified

EARTHQUAKE (RED)

Pile all cushions under stairs

Dive into middle of heap and hope!

FLOOD (RED)

Alert coast guard.

Climb to higher ground - tree in churchyard

Climb on roof and wave mummy's red knickers to get attention from passing boats.

VOLCANO (YELLOW)

As for flood but with better visual effects to watch while waiting for rescue.

May need to change to shorts and t shirt as will be a bit toasty!

NUCLEAR ATTACK (RED)

Make sure fridge fully stocked

Hide in fridge and brace for explosion then dramatic roll as seen on Indiana Jones

Eat contents of fridge.

ACT OF GOD e.g., THUNDERBOLT/LIGHTNING STRIKE/PLAGUE OF INSECTS/DEATH OF FIRST BORN SON (BLACK)

Summon vicar from the Indian restaurant and hope she's sober!

Dress in angel costume in hope God doesn't look too closely

Pray loudly (to any known deity) and look pious!

IF IN DOUBT - DO NOT PHONE MUMMY!

Which is a bit of a worry, because event season is coming up, I have a book to promote, and in the next few weeks, I'll have to ditch the pajamas, put on proper clothes, stand in front of an audience and be entertaining.

It's not as easy as it sounds, and it can easily go horribly wrong, but thinking back to what I brought away from my business school days (apart from Mr. B) then the starting point has to be why people come to these events in the first place and what they are hoping to get out of them. Well, being a bit of an event veteran now, (five books down the line) it seems to me there are a few distinct types in the audience and some tried and tested ways of dealing with them:

Other writers. Yet-to-be-published writers seem drawn to author events, possibly in the hope that some of the pixie-dust will rub off. The best approach, I've found, is to be encouraging but firm.

Pixie dust will not rub off. Unless you are a celebrity, personal contacts make no difference to landing a book deal and no author can help another one find a publisher. The bad news (and at the same time, the good) is that it's all about the book. Uber-successful SJ Watson was famously asked for advice on getting published and replied: 'Write a really good book.'

It's worth repeating that it really is all about the book. A good book at the right time will always find a publisher and if you've written one of those, then it's only a matter of time and persistence. (Well, I don't want to be too encouraging, the market's crowded enough!)

Axe grinders. The audience member who has a point to make, and who is determined to make it, loudly and publicly, to the embarrassment of the author in question. Tess Gerritsen is regularly harangued by women over the sexual violence in her books. For me, it's usually an animal rights campaigner who wants to take issue over the animal cruelty in Awakening. The way to deal with these is to be very firm. We live in a violent society and a culture of violence is a natural and healthy reflection of that. Get over it, or read chick lit.

Rent a crowd. This happens when the organisers, embarrassed at poor tickets sales, have roped in colleagues, neighbours, parents and cleaning staff to swell the numbers. They're easy to spot. They sit at the front and fall asleep. Don't worry about them. They never give any trouble and if they're librarians, they can usually be relied upon for an intelligent question or two.

Genuine fans. Strangely enough, these are the scary ones, because these are the audience members we have to engage. These are people who have loved our books and who want, as a natural and normal progression, to love the authors who wrote them. Sadly, their expectations are often pitched horribly high.

They want us to be incredibly articulate with thought-provoking and controversial opinions. Well, Val McDermid and Sophie Hannah tick that box but most of the rest of us don't.

They want us to be funny, to banter with the other guests, tell a few jokes and hilarious true-life stories. Sadly, we're not all Mark Billingham. They want a rags-to-riches story, about how an almost out-of-print book written years ago was picked up in an Oxfam shop by a TV producer and turned into an exceptionally successful drama series. As far as I know, only Ann Cleeves can tell that one.

It helps if you have a pretty impressive track record behind you, with a whole library of books, a veritable canteen of daggers and hugely successful TV dramas offering testament to your talent and success. Alas, I'm not Andrew Taylor.

Having phenomenal knowledge in any given subject will help. Barry Forshaw, Dan Waddell and Christopher Fowler will always please the crowds, because of their impressive knowledge on the subjects of Scandinavian crime, geneology and the London cultural scene respectively.

Well, in despair of having any audience at all, here are the events in my calendar:

Saturday 24 March: "Tales of Destiny" at Krimimessen, Horsens, Denmark, with Barry Forshaw and Andrew Taylor.

Thursday 12 April: "Bloody Women" at Scarborough Literature Festival, with Val McDermid and Ann Cleeves.

Saturday 22 April: The Crime Panel at Chipping Norton Literary Festival, with Mark Billingham, Sophie Hannah and Dan Waddell.

Tuesday 17 April: The Hertfordshire Literary Festival with Christopher Fowler.

And that, in a nutshell, is the key to promotional event success. Get yourself onto some good panels and then shine in reflected glory!

Why? I asked (possibly in the manner of an annoying four year old.)

'It is a combination of tradition and convenience,' replied my patient and sensible Dutch editor, Juliette. 'And the staff are very accustomed to meeting authors' needs.'

Good enough answer, but one that made me wonder: What exactly are authors' needs? How substantially do they differ from those of other guests? And do authors really want to be surrounded by their own kind when they are away from home? Or ever?

Well, the Ambassade is very pretty and ideally situated on two of the main canals, with apples and chocolates in the bedrooms, a fragrant range of complimentary toiletries and champagne served at breakfast. It also has a library, sweet little rooms for interviews and photographs, and the extremely attentive and charming staff all knew my name from the moment I walked through the door.

But, delightful though all this was, would it not be equally welcome to just about any other travelling business man or woman? And are there not other hotels in Amsterdam who can also meet these requirements?

So it cannot just be about service. It has to be that this is the place where authors are expected to feel at home, to be with their own kind. And this is the bit I'm not sure of. We're notoriously needy, self-centred and insecure, we writing types. Surely the last thing we want is to be amongst those whose success might be greater than our own?

On the other hand, it's a lonely old life being a writer. Fascinating though the contents of our own heads might be, the lack of human contact that is integral to our chosen profession will inevitably and negatively impact upon us.

True, we have a network around us, but emails, phone calls and occasional meetings with agents, editors and publicists are not enough to make up for the lack of daily interaction with work colleagues. Social media helps but isn't enough. Family and friends are interested in what we do but, fundamentally, don't understand it.

Only other authors understand it. Later in the week, at the Transworld Sales Conference, I had a few minutes with Belinda Bauer who, given that she beat me to the gold dagger eighteen months ago, is someone I might be forgiven for hating. And yet a few minutes in her company reminded me of why we need to spend time with other authors.

Belinda understands the difficulties of being a new writer in a hugely competitive environment. She is fully aware that, ultimately, talent (which she has in droves) and hard work might not be enough. She knows the stress of trying to live up to others' expectations and that publishers, however supportive and committed they may be at the outset, are driven by unavoidable commercial pressures.

Belinda and I both know that an author is only as good as her last book, and that a badly received book might mean more than a wasted year of our professional lives; we know it could signal the end of our careers.

We know that those 1* Amazon reviews hurt and annoy like paper cuts.  Oh, and we know that we hate and adore She Who Must Be Obeyed in equal measures.

Belinda might be one of the nicest crime writers I know, but she's by no means atypical and a short time in her company is enough to remind me that being with other writers isn't just a great joy, its essential to my sanity.

So I think, on balance, the Ambassade have probably got it right.

Having said that, if anyone from that lovely hotel is reading this, here are a few thoughts on what might make a great hotel for authors absolutely perfect.

• Out-of-work actors employed to hang around in the lobby, pretending to read copies of the authors' books. (Exclaiming occasionally in shocked glee will also work well.)

• A tombola of "ideas" at reception.  Every time you go past, you're allowed to dig in and pull one out.

• Nightly guided walks of the red light district. Not that we approve or enjoy, you understand, but we take our research very seriously and Dutch publishers are getting very bored with tour requests from British crime writers (be warned, you lot! I know who you are!)

• The TV, when activated, takes you not to a welcome page but to the one star Amazon reviews of your closest rival.

• Syrup waffles in the bedrooms, with the means to warm them up and eat with hot coffee. There is absolutely no point in having the best confectionary known to man, if you don't swank about it. Not nearly enough people know about syrup waffles. (Added benefit - non authors might like this too!)

• A smoking room. OK, the only author I know who smokes is Lee Child, but give us a room wafting exotic fragrances, boasting decanters of old port and we'll stay up all night and kid ourselves we're Ernest Hemingway.

Thank you for looking after me so well, Ambassade! I had a lovely time.

By the way, Swedish author Lars Kepler was at the Ambassade while I was there, and I spent much of the two days of my visit looking out for him. Turns out, there are two of him, and one is a woman!

I joined Twitter a year ago and, to everyone's surprise (I'm a bit of a technophobe) took to it, and I quote Mr B now, like "a demented sparrow on speed."

Twelve months on I still love Twitter. It's informative (everything I know about current crime-writing affairs, I learn from Twitter), Entertaining (as long as you follow discriminately), Cheering (a little compliment on the Twitter waves can brighten up a very dreary day), Enriching (I'm far too lazy to comb the daily news sites and, thanks to Twitter mates, I don't have to).  Above all, it offers social interaction on tap.

And this is where I struggle. I'm not naturally sociable. I'm the quiet one in the corner, listening, soaking it all up but rarely speaking. You could call me a social parasite (you wouldn't be the first) happy to benefit from society, but lazily reluctant to contribute to it. And that's exactly what I've turned into on Twitter - a flee. I still check in most hours, I still chuckle at @StuartMacBride, smile affectionately at @inkstainclaire, widen my eyes in shocked glee at @SarahPinborough (still can't believe she called the pope a c**t) but I've regressed into my naturally silent self. Sooner or later, it seems, we all revert to type. And isn't that how it should be? Isn't wisdom about knowing and accepting oneself?

Except … this morning, I had another complaint. My son told me that I have to stop yelling at his football matches, because it's embarrassing and none of the other mums do it.

So there you have it, when sitting alone at my desk, I have to shout loud and frequently, sharing every last opinion, considered or not, with the world. At a football match, I have to keep my gob shut. #confused!

If you want to follow me on Twitter, and I'm making no promises about frequency:  @authorsjbolton.

And by the way, small one! There is a reason why none of the other mums yell at football matches. They're not bloody-well there! All the other parents are dads, but clearly it's perfectly alright for them to yell, because they know all about the sweaty, muddy, ridiculously dramatic, groin-scratching, male-bonding ritual that is football. Those of us not blessed with a penis, on the other hand, have to know our place and keep mum. #stomps-off-in-a-huff!

All over the UK libraries are at risk. As county councils withdraw funding from branch libraries, many of them will close for good. My own village library, in a semi-rural part of Buckinhamshire, is sadly part of the cull.

Some will argue that this is no bad thing, that libraries are a relic of a different era and that the need for them has passed. We're all wealthier and better-educated, they'll say, our schools are better resourced. We can afford to buy books for ourselves and our children.

Scratch the surface of this logic, though, and the flaws are all too apparent. Granted, when libraries close, we may not immediately notice their passing (they can't compete with hospitals, police, schools on the list of essential services) but their loss will impact upon the intellectual health of our nation just as surely as they will be missed by the lonely old lady who pops in for warmth and a chat. Our need for libraries is as great now as it has ever been.

Reading is still the cornerstone of education. It is impossible to educate a child who cannot read, a mammoth task to teach one who hasn't developed competent reading skills. Tutors who prepare children for the 11+ and common entrance exams will tell you that whilst verbal reasoning and arithmetical skills can be learned, the equally essential vocabulary skills cannot. They have to be acquired, gradually, via years of wide and comprehensive reading.

Not does education stop when a young adult leaves school. Learning is a life-long process. We all learn, everyday, through our conversations with others, the documentaries and dramas we watch on TV, by listening to news and current affairs programmes. Most of all, we learn through our reading and I'm not just talking about quality newspapers and worthy non-fiction. How many of us owe our knowledge of early English history to the novels of Phillippa Gregory, CJ Sansom and Ariana Franklin? I know I do! Maintaining our reading skills as we grow older is essential to keeping our minds alert, active and receptive to new ideas.

We need to read, we need books and it naturally follows that we need our libraries.

Libraries, or more strictly, the professional librarians, have long been the literary opinion formers of the nation. They sit between publishers and the reading public, spotting emerging trends, promoting new authors, introducing new ideas to their customers. Countless authors have achieved commercial success having first been championed by the library service.

What we shouldn't forget is that libraries are better stocked than most bookstores. Even small, branch libraries like my own have more shelf space than many small bookshops, offering us a wide and continually changing range. Not restricted by the same commercial pressures as bookshops, libraries can stock out-of-print works, unfashionable authors, forgotten classics and undiscovered new authors. The range of books available to us is far wider when we have libraries to call upon.

Libraries enable us to take risks with our reading, to be brave and adventurous. £18.99 on a new hardback is expensive for a book that, ultimately, may not suit our taste. So we stick with what we know. On the other hand, knowing we can discard a book after a few pages and our wallet will be non the worse will encourage us to widen our reading, try something new and, occasionally, to make exciting new discoveries. That we can then go on to spend our money on - in bookshops.

Libraries don't compete with bookshops, as many imagine, they work alongside them, complementing the work they do, but they're not followers, they are trend-setters.

But it's not just about the books. A library, like the pub, the post office, the village shop, is part of the fabric of the community. A place where people can go for some human interaction. Don't underestimate the importance of this, those of you who go to an office everyday, who have plenty of mates and family not too far away. You need to be stuck in a place where you know few people, with no company for hours on end but a demanding toddler, to appreciate the importance of a kindly smile, a chat, being in a place where there are other people. My own village is full of mums with young children, many of whom are not originally local. We also have a lot of older people, who may struggle to get around. We have unemployed people who value the job pages in the local newspapers and the easy access to the internet. What strikes me about the whole closure of libraries business, is that those who will suffer the most are the least advantaged among us, whose voice of complaint can so easily be ignored.

As I write this, the anger I feel at the Government's decision to withdraw support from the public library service hasn't abated. In my mind, there were other worthier targets, but the deed is done and we have to make the best of it. Luckily for my own village, a group of people who passionately believe the library should stay have been working hard for over a year now, to arrange its transfer into community control. This is expected to happen at the beginning of April.  They have recently invited me to join them and, specifically, to manage the future purchase and rotation of books. I was honoured to accept.

The new era will be hard work, but not without its excitements. For a start, moving to community ownership will give our village control over books that has never been possible until now. Whilst our two professional librarians have invaluable knowledge of local reading tastes, their purchasing ability has always been limited. Ours will not be. New adult fiction and non-fiction will be ours to choose. If we want to expand our biographies, historical fiction and women's interest, we can. If we want to rid the library of crime we can. (But only over my dead body!)

One area I'm keen to explore is young adult fiction. There are many bright young readers in our village who are not well catered for at the moment and who have to travel to bigger libraries. At the same time, young adult fiction is one of the most exciting genres in publishing. What a fabulous opportunity to bring together brilliant new books with bright young readers who are eager to explore them. I want to work soon with a focus group of this age, enabling them to tell us what books and authors they want to see in their library.

No one, especially not my neighbours, should imagine the battle is over. Passing libraries into community ownership hasn't saved them, it has given them a stay of execution. If we are to keep them into the future, we'll need the ongoing commitment of our volunteers and the financial support of our sponsors. Most of all, though, we will need our libraries to be used. The future of our libraries, more than ever, is completely within our hands and now is the time when we must prove (or not) that they are a resource to be valued and kept.

But I meant it as a great compliment. Of all the people I see on a regular basis, she is someone whose company I particularly enjoy. She has her own way of doing things and is happy with that, but wouldn't dream of judging those who take a different approach. She's happy to talk about dogs, children and home decorating (she's perfectly normal and these things are interesting) but she's also passionate about alternative medicine, the environment and accessible arts. Conversations with her can go in any direction, but I always leave her company feeling that my mind has been stretched and I've learned something new.

Nuts, to my mind, means interesting, entertaining, unusual, maybe a bit zany, but above all different. And different is good.

I've been thinking about this a lot in the last few days. Partly because the reviews for Dead Scared have started to appear on Amazon. As a rule, reviewers are pretty kind to me but, invariably, those negative adjectives creep in: "implausible", "far-fetched", "outlandish".

I don't like it, but it's a fair cop. I am a bit outlandish. I don't write classic police-procedurals in which a killer with a predictable motive is both hunter and hunted at the same time. I don't do cosy, rural mysteries where an assembled cast of characters are judged and found guilty, or not, by the reader. I write snakes and ghosts, inanimate figures that come to life and crawl around an abandoned abbey, detectives with more to hide than the killers they're pursuing.

When I'm criticized it's invariably because, as crime writers go, I'm a bit different.

I've tried to toe the line, honest I have. Now You See Me was my attempt at the classic city-based police procedural. I planned it to be gritty, urban, with a simple plot and a believable story line. Of course, being me, it didn't quite work out that way; the outlandish ideas and Gothic influences crept in, one by one, until as Andrew Taylor wrote in The Spectator: 'You don't so much suspend disbelief as chuck it gleefully out of the window.'

I can't do it you see. I can't write mainstream crime. For better or worse, I'm different and I've come to terms with that.

What I haven't come to terms with, yet, is how different I can "allow" my ten year old son to be. He has slightly wacky genes (inevitably) but at the same time a fragile self-confidence and a child's inherent awareness of the desirability of the norm.

He wants the support and camaraderie of the team, but not at the price of spending every school break playing football. He craves the acceptance of others and popularity within the group, but not at the expense of the quiet voice inside him that speaks for his true self.

It's hard, steering a child along the steep and precarious path of discovering his place in the world. I will not tell him to always do what he wants, because there are times when going along with the crowd is the natural and right thing to do. Following the herd occasionally, to my mind, is no worse than a stubborn insistence on being different purely for the sake of it.

And left behind by the herd is a lonely place to be.

It's all about balance, judgment and, ultimately, wisdom. And here is where I find myself encouraged. Because my nuttiest friends (you know who you are) are, strangely, also my wisest, the ones on whom I can always rely for honest and considered advice. Weird people, I've noticed, are invariably inherently sensible, as though the first step to wisdom is understanding and accepting who you are, even if what you are is a little alternative.

My son played in a football match yesterday, and merited special mention in the post-match report circulated by the club manager. He is proud as punch and so am I. It's good to be different, but sometimes it's better to gain the acceptance and approbation of our peers.

The Exorcist was one of the defining films of my youth, possibly of the 20^th century. I remember to this day the buzz in the playground as those kids with siblings old enough to sneak into the back of cinemas described scenes and quotes. You all know the ones I'm thinking of: rotating head, defiled statue, antics with the crucifix. And what twelve year old could ever forget the line: "Your mother sucks xxxxx in hell." I'll wager people who have never even seen the film will know of these scenes, will have heard the more famous lines before. Which is remarkable in itself. How many films from over 30 years ago remain so entirely threaded in the public consciousness?

With this in mind, I was determined at least to try and watch it. I needed to see, with mature eyes, what the fuss was really all about. Is The Exorcist a "superb horror", as the TV guide described, and a groundbreaking piece of cinematic history. Or would it be a massive disappointment like many other so-called iconic horror films (I laughed my way through The Wicker Man), memorable only in its capacity to shock?

The other reason I wanted to see it again was that those of us who make our living from scaring others need continually to be re-honing our skills. A sort of continuous professional development for writers, if you like. If The Exorcist is one of the scariest films ever, what makes it so? What tricks does it contain that scribblers like me can learn from, adapt and use again.

Well, the first thing that struck me, watching the film with fresh eyes, is -for most of its duration - its complete ordinariness. This is a story of regular folks. OK, the main character is a famous actress but her primary role in the film is that of a perfectly ordinary mum. The film kicks off on an archealogical dig in the middle east. Some odd artefacts are found, it's a bit atmospheric, but nothing to get worked up about. Then we move to Washington and to a mother and 12 year old daughter enjoying family life. It's familiar, a little saccharine perhaps, almost verging on dull. And so it goes on.

Until that first, tiny clue that the status quo is about to swing. When Mum wakes up one night to find her daughter in the bed alongside her. 'What are you doing here?' She asks. 'Couldn't sleep, Mummy,' Regan replies. 'The bed was shaking.'

Mum dismisses this as a bad dream or an over-active imagination. But we know it's neither. We know it's the beginning.

Mr B and I made it to the flesh-slashing, vomit-hurling, head-rotating end and were in complete agreement that The Exorcist is worthy of its reputation. It is a superbly crafted film, seriously scary and genuinely groundbreaking.  And it has a huge amount to teach people like me whose job it is to scare others:

1. The power of the ordinary. If you fill your story with normal folks, giving them a life that seems entirely familiar and then shift the perspective, just a little, you've got a potentially very scary scenario, because when you take away one little foundation brick, what's to stop the whole pack of cards from tumbling down?

2. Playing to your audience's fears. Some fears are universal and for most adults, the greatest is of something terrible happening to a child we love. For all its gimics and special effects, The Exorcist is the story of a mother who faces losing her only child to a "disease" she cannot begin to understand.

3. Setting expectations. I'm convinced that one of the reasons The Exorcist scares the living daylights out of us is that we expect it to do so. I was on edge from the opening credits, knowing that some pretty heavy stuff was coming, and not being entirely sure when. The lesson for thriller writers has to be to let readers know from the outset that they are going to be scared.

4. Not overplaying your hand. Some of the scariest scenes in The Exorcist are not the famous vomit-laden ones, but the quieter moments: like when a young girl's eyes turn empty, and she laughs with a voice that is not her own.

5. Cutting off escape routes. The mother, in The Exorcist, cannot run. Her daughter is her life. She is trapped by a relationship, by the power of the mother/child bond, and as we see her options disappearing we can only share her sense of iscolation and entrapment.

6. Using shock tactics sparingly. There are some exceptionally shocking scenes in The Exorcist but, taken as a whole, they don't give the impression of a film using shock tactics gratuitously because they are balanced by the humanity of the rest of the film. The love, faith and courage shown by the mother and the two priests is enough to counter the graphic sexual violence that would otherwise drive people to turn the TV off.

I went to bed last night with a great deal to think about.

This morning, our young son joined us in our bed with the story of how something strange had happened to him in the night. His wrist-watch, that he'd been wearing when he went to sleep, fell on his face in the night and woke him up. And so it begins ...

It grows. Rather alarmingly. Yes, I understand the properties of yeast, have even been known to bake my own bread, but there remains something rather disconcerting about having something in my kitchen that is bigger every time I look at it. (Apart from my son, of course, whose astonishing ability to increase in size I'm getting used to.)

The cake also has a name - Herman. Wasn't there a Munster so called?

Anyway, back to the instructions. On the ninth day, I divide Herman into five equal portions and give four of them away to friends, along with a copy of the instructions. Selected friends then start the process anew and so on, until the whole world is growing Hermans.

And so friendship spreads, supposedly.

I mention this, because one of my (only two) New Year's Resolutions is to spend more time with friends. (Whether they'll want to spend much time with me once I've foisted a Herman on them is another matter) Friends are something I regularly feel guilty about because I never feel I put the effort into the relationship that those who are in it with me deserve.

I'm invariably reserved with friends, playing the passive role, waiting from them to contact me, responding, rather than initiating. It doesn't take a genius to work out that this isn't fair. In fact it's fundamentally selfish. Why should I piggyback on their energy?

Whether it's laziness on my part or a fundamental lack of confidence (I genuinely can't see why these entertaining and popular people would want to spend any time with me) I'm never entirely sure, but the fact remains that my friendships are rather one sided, I feel guilty about it, and it's time I did something to address it.

(It's also rather indicative of another failing of mine. It's waiting for life to happen to me, rather than making it happen for me but maybe that's a subject for another blog.)

So, New Year Resolution No. 2: invest more time and energy in my friends.

Of course, I know New Year's Resolutions are invariably forgotten about come the middle of February - how many of us leopards ever really change our spots? Someone I know declared he will make no New Year Resolutions because there's nothing about himself he wants to change. Oh, to have such glorious self-confidence, although I suspect it can't go hand in hand with an intellect of any size.

Me though? Well, there's something I find heartening about recognising a problem, working out its solution and determining to put it into place. Making New Year Resolutions shows we know we're not perfect, that we recognise both the need and the desire to improve. It shows that we value the fresh start and are grateful that, at least once a year, another one comes along.

So, when I divide my Herman into five, (8^th January if you want to be sure you're out!) I will give one portion to my friend next door, who is the big sister I never had, a brilliant surrogate granny to my son, and whose presence in my life has a way of making me feel just that little bit safer. The next will go to the lady who lost a good friend over Christmas, because I want her to know that there is a spaniel-shaped hole in my life too right now. The third is destined for the woman down the road, who is a little older than I am, (although you'd rarely know it) and who is exactly what I want to be when I grow up. The last, I'm saving for the friend who can insult me to the core and make me laugh out loud with a single (usually the same) sentence and who I know, when given Herman, will consign it straight to the bin!

Resolution No 1: to work harder and write my best book ever. On that note ...