Now that I'm an established author whose meditations are even being quoted internationally, I decided yesterday to try my hand at short story writing. It was harder than I'd thought it would be. At school we're given essay titles which help to focus the mind. But when you can write about anything at all, it's much harder.

My first attempt was about a self-taught viloinist who turns down a marriage proposal because she doesn't respect the manner in which she is asked - over a Chicken Biryani in her flat with Question Time on in the background. When I'd finished it (and I knew I had because the proposal was finally acceptable) I read it over then put a line right the way through it. What else could I do? Of all the subjects in the world to write about, of all the views close to my heart I could have put across, of all the people I had met and admired, I had chosen to describe a self-taught violinist and a Chicken Biryani. And I don't even like Chicken Biryani. And I can't even play the violin. And I've never even had a marriage proposal.

So I tried again. This time, I was happier with the content. A successful and beautiful young woman (and already I felt this heroine was someone I could relate to) suddenly decides to have a flatmate, to the horror of her admiring Russian boyfriend - a violinist (my persistent obsession with the violin took even me by surprise). I liked the storyline because it had a twist - the flatmate is assumed throughout to be a young woman - she's full of life and strong-willed and attractive to men who are drawn to her vibrant, outspoken personality. It's not until the end that the reader discovers the flatmate is eighty-five. At least this time I had written about characters I admired. But I feared that some readers might feel that the heroine had made the wrong choice in turning down the opportunity to live with the Russian violinist in favour of her eighty-five year old Great Aunt. Personally, I thought she made exactly the right choice, but I had my readers to consider.

I didn't try again after that. Short stories, I decided, were not for Harriet Rose. I may be able to condense my thoughts into Meditations, but I cannot condense my characters - they have too much to say.