The Captain

A face craggy with a life at sea. Sun, salty air, cigarettes, wind, frowning against the bright glare. Salt and pepper stubble, thickly spread, grey whiskers above a dry top lip. Hair upright as if stuck in a permanent headwind. Lines etched across his face from years of the same expression, from the same stare out to sea. Thick arms and wide back stretching his blue shirt, veins over his paw hands like rope, always shoeless, running around the boat as if he were moving carefree fingers over his wife's body in the dark. A soft, powerful nicotine-gruff voice, a tooth missing. He could be anywhere from 35-65 years old, there's no way to tell. The years pass differently at sea, I hear.

And at his feet someone follows. A son or grandson, fluffy blonde hair, fudge-coloured skin, maybe eight years old, a big smile missing his front teeth, soft and thin arms, copying everything the captain does, knowing what to do, winding the heavy ropes, standing on deck looking out, pretending to be his obvious hero, grown-up and trying to impress. And when we stop he jumps into the sea with a childlike squeal, jumping off the top deck, swimming to shore, climbing on board, jumping off again. And we sail again. The two stand side-by-side at the front of the boat, the Captain invisibly, perceptibly with his arm around the boy, smiling, proud as they take the same stance, hand over brow, looking out over the inky water. And then he gets to be the Captain, the boy, and sail across the expanse of open sea. I've never seen so much joy, excitement, command or belonging in a young boy's eyes. He was born to be on the sea, just like the Captain.

(No beer in this post, I just couldn't resist writing about these two. The trip was supposedly the Sporades Sunshine Cruise but was actually an ostensible Mumma Mia Experience, the soundtrack playing throughout, the 'look to your right, that island is clearly shown in the background of a scene, in the scene someone is singing and dancing on the beach' or 'this beach was in the film' or 'if you want to go to the church then you can but you'll have to pay a taxi driver and you'll miss your lunch'. The Captain was actually in the film. He'd be hard to miss - he's the one who looks like he's made from old oak, rope and sand. The boat in the picture, we were told, was also in the film.)

To the beach

Not much happening, exactly what we wanted. It's hot. To the beach. A different one today, further away. We walk - it's good exercise. It's further than we think. It's hot. The beach is quiet. In two weeks it'll be busy, the Italians will be here, this tour guide told us three days ago on a boat. It's windy, the water's too rough to swim in. We can see the mainland. We went there last week, had lunch. The sand is so hot it burns our feet when we leave, jumping across it, searing pain up to the knees. We walk back. Lauren doesn't talk to me much on the way back, she said I was staring at this girl. This girl was okay, the one I was staring at. I was mostly just reading The Rules of Attraction. Rock'n'roll.

Later. We go to the other beach, the close beach. The sea is calm, shimmering and bright blue. Lots of leathery skin all around, pink, brown, flashes of white. Girl with Page 3 tits sits next to guy with Men's Health pecs. Next to them an old couple lie wrinkled and brown like walnuts, asleep on their loungers. Next to them a kid makes sandcastles. His dad stares at the Page 3 tits, the kid's mum reads Mills & Boon, or chicklit or something. I read some more, remember the film, but not that well and decide to watch it again when I get home. Swim. Find a sunset red starfish that looks fake but isn't. The sea is still except for the occasional breaking wave from a cruise ship that passed by 15 minutes ago. Fish all around, some at the surface, some on the sea bed, little darts of silver. Play frisbee back on land. We manage 93 before I drop an easy one. Buy water, beer, fruit and crisps on the way home. Read some more while drinking an Alfa on the balcony as the sun moves out of sight, behind us. One couple are in the pool. She's terribly overweight, tattoos on her shoulders, he's thin, sunburnt, a beer on the pool's edge. They talk too loudly.

The waitress at dinner really doesn't care. I order moussaka and 500ml of house red wine (four euros for the wine). I ask for fried potatoes too. That's what they are called on the menu. She doesn't understand. I point to where it says fried potatoes. Chips, she says. Chips, I say. The moussaka comes in a ceramic pot which means it's beyond hot inside. Lauren doesn't like her dinner so I eat some and it's just okay. She looks good, her skin tanned, little freckles on her nose. I finish the wine.
More bang for your buck, I tell Lauren. I have to explain what this means. She doesn't drink, does she.

Bastard mosquitoes are everywhere. In the night Lauren jumps out of bed and launches a trainer at the ceiling. She turns the light on. I was asleep. It's a fucking cockroach, she screams. It flew in my face. I tell her to turn the light off while she's hitting the cockroach with a broom. It's still alive, she says as she throws another shoe at it. Got it, she says. It's too hot to sleep.

I finish reading the book in the morning. It makes me want to write something. I miss the tap of the keyboard but love the messy scratching of the pencil on paper. Writing in the sun reminds me of Hemingway's The Garden of Eden (without the lesbians or elephants). I'm sitting by the pool, Lauren is on the lilo, unknown pop music is playing somewhere. Later we are going to the beach. Lauren just fell off the lilo.

The First Time...

The first time I tried beer it was horrible. I was just a boy.

The first time I went to the pub I had a pint of lager.

The first time I got drunk it wasn’t because I had too much lager, it was because I had too much cider.

The first time I tried a dark beer it was too astringent, it was too different.

The first time I tried proper cider it tasted like sour apples and horse shit.

The first time I tried Newcastle Brown Ale I felt cooler. I was cooler.

The first time I tried good cask real ale was a revelation. It was Hobgoblin or Gales HSB.

The first time I tried a hoppy pale ale I didn’t like it. I wanted it to taste like Hobgoblin or HSB.

The first time I had an 8% beer I couldn’t believe how strong it was. Just a half of that one.

The first time I had an imperial stout I couldn’t believe how delicious it was, how big and different.

The first time I had an Innis & Gunn I thought it was the best beer I’d ever tasted.

The first time I tried Orval I didn’t know why it tasted that way.

The first time I tried lambic I was warned: “It’s as flat as a witch’s tit and sour as hell.” That made me want it more. I hated it.

The first time I had Stone Ruination IPA I discovered hops. I discovered I loved them.

The first time I had Drie Fonteinen Gueuze I realised why people love gueuze.

The first time I really enjoyed a saison came as a revelation. See also: wheat beer, lager, US-style barley wine, tripels.

The first time I had a pint of beer seems a long time ago now.

What's Next?

I’m still on a high. Lauren is getting sick of me saying things like: ‘I’m an award winning writer now so I don’t need to do the washing up’ and ‘what shower gel do you think award winning writers use?’. The thing is, I want to write and I cannot not write. Take me away from a laptop or pad of paper for more than a day or so and I go a bit nuts. It’s not just therapeutic or comforting; it’s the one thing that I can do so naturally that sometimes it’s scary to re-read (although sometimes it’s bad scary). I’m still learning about beer and trying to form my thoughts on it and communicate them effectively, but for me, I hope this is a reward for the quality of my writing above everything else. A lot of people ask why I get up at 5am, but I do it because that gives me three hours to write in the morning before work. If I didn’t do it then I couldn’t write. It’s an easy decision for me.

This weekend has had me thinking about what’s next, so I will commit them to the page.

I have goals beyond this blog, my notepad and my twitter account. I’ve written a novel and a half but these are waiting to the side for now. I’ve started writing for RateBeer’s Hoppress but I can do more than that. I now need to start trying to get commissions for pieces in papers, magazines and on other websites. I need to travel more, read more, learn more and drink more. I’ve got ideas for small blog projects which I’ll get out there soon and I’ve got ideas for larger projects which I’m working on and trying to hone and perfect (what’s the heart of it? What’s the story?). There’s a lot that I want to do and this, I hope, will be the springboard into my writing career.

Personally, 2009 has been a great year for me. I graduated from my Masters (in Creative Writing), started a career, moved in with Lauren and became an uncle. I think 2010 could be an even better year, but it will be what I make it – it’s in my hands now (or, more precisely, in my tapping fingertips). Ben McFarland is the youngest ever winner of the Beer Writer of the Year and he was 28 at the time. I turned 25 three weeks ago and I believe I’m the youngest to win an award from the Guild (correct me if I’m wrong though). As a goal, let me say this: in 2011 I want to be the Beer Writer of the Year. Now I’ve got almost two years to get there, starting from now.

As for this blog, it carries on the same, hopefully getting better all the time. I want to keep up the FAB POW!s and the As-Live Tastings, I want to do more videos as I’ve been lazy with that recently, there will be more things like Beer Swap where everyone can take part in something, I want to travel more, I want to keep writing different pieces and hopefully I’ll drink more, better beer.

I’d also like to thank everyone again for all the messages that I’ve received - it’s been very humbling. Without any readers this blog wouldn’t be what it is now. It’s also always great to hear from people who read this thing so it was especially nice to hear from first time commenters. Cheers guys. Now watch this space!

Beer Hunter-Gatherer

We are innately tuned to be hunter-gatherers. It’s how we lived and it’s how we evolved. The manly job of the campfire community was to take their weapon out into the open plains and take down a wild animal to feed himself, his family and his friends. No catch, no dinner. And this is hard-wired into our nature – the desire to go out and get things, to provide, to feed, to consume.

We leave our caves and the warmth of the radiators, we go to the store, we hunt up and down the aisles, gathering and filling our basket with vegetables, cleaning products (home and personal) and various condiments before paying for it and taking it home: we still go out and we still bring stuff back, but there’s a whole middle bit which is often missing (handing over cash is not quite the same transaction as spearing a beast). Of course, there are those who do hunt their own food and cook it, but these are the exception not the rule and they do it more for sport than survival.

Could it be that this innate instinct now shows a version of itself in our search for good beer? Does the thrill of the chase satisfy us on a deeper level than sensory pleasure? Is walking into a great bar with some money in your pocket the 21st century equivalent of walking into the jungle with a freshly-sharpened weapon? In the pub you know you’ll find something, you just don’t know what – it might be a standard ale or it may be a fantastic beer that you’ve wanted to try for ages. In the jungle you may find a bony monkey or you might find a great, fat boar.

Everyone has that thing they love to go after and buy. Maybe it’s the latest album or game, new clothes, books, meals out, wine… going out to get these, the ‘thrill’ of the chase to the shop, the moment when your money is transferred, delight at taking something home or enjoying where you are. Some of this survival nature has evolved itself away from hunting to survive and into hunting things for personal enrichment and pleasure. The next time you go into a pub and look up and down the handpumps before choosing the beer you want, stop and think how similar that is to hiding behind a tree in a loincloth and throwing a spear at a wild animal. The need of the instinct has changed, but the enjoyment and satisfaction hasn’t.

Or something like that, anyway.

I got the picture from here. It also has some other fun beer-related pictures, although some are a little... primal.

Beer with Character; Characters with Beer

I posted here about writing a novel and writing in general. Of the stages of writing, the early creative planning is my favourite part. It’s where the characters are turned into real people, where they grow and develop and pop out into 3D. I’ve been working on a new idea for a while now. It jumped into my head in the middle of a meeting one day at work and has been bounding around since then, getting bigger and more in focus. I’ve now sorted out pretty much everything – characters, names, places, tone, mood, plot, story, narrative – but there’s a few things that I want some help with as I start writing, a few of the smaller details. And guess what?! This story is about beer (here’s the gist: think American Psycho meets Sideways (the film, not the book - the book is unreadably bad) meets Perfume in a brewery).

Here’s some background. The story is essentially about two brewers. It’s (probably) based in North California. The protagonist is at The Wagon Brew. Co and the antagonist is at the Second Sunday Brewery. Both are micros. Both are adventurous brewers. Both have their core range of beers and seasonal extras and specials. Second Sunday is more established and award-winning; The Wagon is new and struggling to get started, especially with Second Sunday doing so well. I won’t tell you anything more about story just yet…

The Wagon Brew Co. is sorted and I know the plan for it. But the Second Sunday Brewery beers have not been finalised. The brewer’s name is Chase Burton. He’s a celebrated home-brewer who decided to start his own commercial brewery. The story begins as he is winning an award for best beer at a beer festival. His core range will involve the expected pale ales, IPAs, stouts, ESBs, plus DIPAs and imperial stouts. There will also be a few Belgian styles and ‘clones’, for which he is well known. There will also be some barrel-aging. And here’s where I need your help: I need beer names, I need beer descriptions, I need creative ideas for new beers. The brews can be strong or weak, pale or dark, lager or ale, one-offs or regulars, cask-only or keg or bottled. Just go crazy and throw a load of ideas at me but remember that this is fiction and not fantasy, so keep them real and possible but take inspiration from anywhere and feel free to experiment with different ingredients and styles. If any stick and I like it then I’ll name a character after you.

Inspire me!

Whenever I tell a mate that I’m writing they always ask if they are in it. I don’t know why. Oh and I posted the picture at the top to twitter this morning. I was working on the quick and early designs for The Wagon’s logo. If anyone has any ideas for what it could look like then let me know. And if Second Sunday inspires anything in you then shout as I haven’t finished that logo yet either.

A Piercing Scream

I’ve just taken out my last remaining piercing. At one point, a few years ago, I had 10 metal bits somewhere or other in my body and I’ve had 13 piercings altogether (more if you include ‘stretching’). Now there are none. I’ve only got tattoos left. I love tattoos but I only have three. I’d have an arm full if I could afford it (I’d probably ask this person to design some of it). It’s a work of art. An art collection. I often think - when pissed - how I’d like the outline of a pint on my arse. Maybe I’ll get it done one day. Let’s say if I win beer writer of the year! I don’t quite know how to feel now that I have no piercings left. These were things I had done between 16 and 18 years old. I’m a different person now and they weren’t a part of me in the way they used to be. I was rebelling back then, I think. Against what, I don’t know, but I was rebelling something. Either that or it was a creative way of expressing myself. I was also addicted to the thrill of getting them done. There’s the worry, the excitement, the nerves, the anticipation. It’s a heightened sense of your self. The clinical smell of the studio. The pictures of other piercings all around. You know it’s going to hurt. But you think it’s going to look great. You sit in the chair, a pair of tweezers clamped around whatever you are getting modified, the spot is cleaned, it tingles and numbs and stings, then the needle comes out, your heartbeat races, you breathe quicker, you brace yourself. The needle goes in. It goes through. It burns, it sears, it slides clean in and out the other side, a barbell pushes through a plastic tube, it’s just hanging there, suspended, stuck in it’s new home, a new piece of me. The balls are tightened on each end. It’s done. It still burns. It hangs heavily. A foreign object stuck in me. I’m not used to how it feels, it’s heavy. It takes some getting used to. There’s a huge adrenaline rush like nothing else. Light-headed, full of energy, laughing, excited. What do you think? No it didn’t hurt that much. That’s what they always ask: did it hurt?

You will not believe how difficult it was to find a decent picture for this post. In every one of me where there’s a piercing in shot I am completely wasted or it’s totally unpublishable (because I’m completely wasted). It also seems the digital camera wasn’t invented until 2005, at least that’s how far back my photos go. And if you want to know what I had pierced then use this: if it dangled it got pierced. I got my tongue pierced twice and I twice ended up in hospital because things went 'a bit wrong' (none because of my tongue - one was an adventurous ear piercing which required me to be on a drip for two days). For a while I also had 8mm holes in each ear (as the picture shows). Crazy. One time (read: more than one time) someone placed a straw through my ear and drank their drink. If you are interested, check out BMEzine, I used to love it! I kind of miss them already.

The Session 28 (Better Late Than Never): Hollow Way Brew Co.

I wrote this for the previous Session (hosted here) but was feeling a little rough after drinking the night before and didn’t get around to posting it. It seems a waste to just leave it unpublished, so here it is.

I visited Hollow Way Brew Co. earlier this year. It’s an unreal place. Grayson Holloway, the owner and head brewer met me when I got off the bus in the middle of nowhere. He’s younger and better looking than I expected (if a movie of his life were made he’d be played by Kevin Costner circa 1998 or Ryan Gosling) and he drives me in his pick-up to the ranch where he has built his brewery.

It’s only been around for a few years, he tells me. I tell him that I haven’t been able to find any information on the place and there’s no website. They are working on the whole PR side of things and he has big plans for the next year. His girlfriend, Abbie, is setting up the brewpub and she’s also helping out with the website. The brewpub will be the big draw, he hopes.

We arrive at the brewery-come-ranch. It’s a hot and dusty day and the air hangs still, full of the heady aromas of fresh hops. The place consists of two large barns and two old farm houses (he lives in one, the other will be the brewpub). He has around ten acres of land, part of which is used for growing hops (currently Eroica, Green Bullet, Olympic, Symphony and Zeus – a bunch of lesser-known varieties) and part is an established vegetable garden which will supply the brewpub. He also has a large greenhouse where he grows herbs and spices and other delights. It’s a pretty wonderful sight for a beer geek like me.

The brewing area is split in two: the main brewhouse barn and the experimental/storage barn. The main one has the capabilities for one 35hl brew a day, plus 4 UNI conditioning tanks. The other barn is like a secret cave a goodies (plus a cave of barrels and bottling machines). There are old whisky barrels filled with beer, there are a whole range of ingredients like dried fruits and spices, coffee beans and tea. Plus there’s one of his first projects: Wild One. It’s his own lambic which he brewed over a year ago and which he hopes will be ready in another year or so. That’s his baby, he tells me. There is also a Wild Two (working title) ageing in champagne barrels.

Following Gray around it’s clear that he’s hugely passionate about brewing. He started the brewery up after receiving an inheritance and now he wants to make it big. He’s seen the craft beer market take off and he wants to be involved in that. He wants his name as well known as Stone, Dogfish Head, Russian River and Mikkeller. He wants to see his beers flying up the ‘Best Of’ lists. He wants to win awards. He wants people to visit him from far away and to love his beer. He wants to be someone special.

But what are the beers like? I got to try a few while I was there but to be honest I was a little disappointed. I expected more from all of the beers and none of them really delivered. I think Gray sensed that I was slightly underwhelmed and it was then that he said this: ‘They aren’t perfect yet, I know, but they will be.’ His voice was full of a raw emotion, something intangible, something deep-rooted; a sadness that he hadn’t got it right, but a hope that he will. And you know what? He’s an impressive guy. He knows about beer. He knows what he wants and I’m pretty sure that he’ll get it.

Session One. 5%
The session ale modeled on a British bitter. A deep amber with a thick, creamy head. It has a nose of toffee, bread, earthy hops, blackcurrants and spicy citrus. The body is a little thin but it drinks well enough. There’s a good malty base, nice and bready, finished with plenty of rounding-off hops.

Session Two. 4%
A pale ale. Zingy and fresh and light. Biscuity malt and finished with a hefty load of hops. This was a good beer (in the same vain as HopHead) although he tells me that it doesn’t sell too well.

Dark One. 8%
Hollow Way’s stock stout. Big and black. A nose of coffee, milk chocolate, liquorice, heavy soil, toasted nuts and a berry bitter-sweetness. Great nose. Unfortunately it doesn’t carry through onto the palate which is a little one-dimensional.

IPA Two. 10%
A double IPA. This is more my kind of thing. It’s hopped with a selection of the ones he grows at the brewery along with Centennial, Columbus, Simcoe and Cascade: a real hop bomb. The nose is just what you’d expect: citrus and pine with floral hints of mint, and sweet notes of white chocolate and toffee. It’s the best brew I tried there. Brutish, strong, in your face. Fairly well balanced although I’d want it more bitter, in truth, something which he intends to do anyway with the next brew.

Super One. 15%
This one took 15 hours for Gray (and his assistant Jacob) to brew. It then spent 10 days in primary fermentation and a year in whisky barrels. It’s massive and I was so excited about trying it. It pours a thick crimson-brown with little head. The nose is immediately smoky from the barrel aging, then it’s got dried fruits and a slight sourness, blackberries. Drinking this was a little odd though. The smoky and oxidized sour notes clashed in a strange way. The strength was fiery and there was little sweetness to claw it back. Gray is disappointed with this one, but he’s working on a few more in the Super Series (Super Two, Three and Four).

While I was there I also got a quick taste of the Wild One (a big privilege as this was the first time Gray had even tried it!). He tapped a little off into our glasses and held it up to the light: a blush of pink. The aroma: winter fruits, mustard, hay. He was smiling at this point. The taste: still sweet, straying into sour with cherry and under-ripe plums. This one is turning out well and he’s delighted with it. Although it’s not perfect yet.

So there we are, my little trip to Hollow Way Brew Co. Gray is doing some cool things and he sure is ambitious. You may not have heard of him yet, but remember his name because someday soon I’m sure you will.

I didn’t get any pictures because my camera wouldn’t work when I got there. I was really pissed off about that.

On Writing a Novel

You may or may not know that I’ve been trying to write a novel. I started in January (this year) and I finished the first draft in the middle of April. Now I’ve got the formidable task of editing. The from-the-heart free-flowing creativity is over and I’ve got months of the from-the-head think-like-a-reader/publisher and make-it-as-good-as-you-can objectivity. It’s where I make sure that I’ve chosen exactly the right words in exactly the right order. And I need to do all of this without losing the essence of the piece, the heart of it. I don’t want to make it a science project; it’s a work of creativity, a piece of love.

It is my routine to get up and write in the morning before work. In those two hours at my desk with a cup of coffee I am taken to a different place and time; I am here in body but there in mind. The story plays like a movie in my head.

I planned the story for a couple of months before starting. I worked out who my main characters were and I started to get to know them (although it was only when they started living in the actual piece that I fully knew them). I decided what was going to happen, where and how (although things changed on the way to THE END), I worked out the best tone and voice, I did some research and I spent about three days trying to decide on the main characters’ names (names often take me ages to choose). Yet I still surprised myself with the things that happened. I had times where I was so excited that I couldn’t physically type quick enough to keep up with my imagination. The ending was planned to be in one place but it turned out that it took place somewhere else and the final ‘battle’ was both fiercer and more delicate at the same time, more emotional and moving, harder hitting. These things, the actions you didn’t plan or anticipate, can be very exciting.

I’ve started on the editing now and this morning I re-read one of the scenes which was a favourite to write. It honestly hit me deep inside when I read it back. I created that. It found the exact right tone and pace and emotion. And the final line of the chapter is just perfect. I was pretty proud with that. And the astounding thing is that when I re-read these things I have no idea how I created them or where they came from. It’s a mystery.

But writing is such an up-and-down kind of thing. Sometimes everything flows better than you can ever hope and you get the highest of rushes, a surge of happiness and excitement that can last for hours. Those ‘wow, did I really create that?’ highs are worth all the lows. And there are plenty of lows. The days when your fingers just won’t do anything. When your creativity is a vacuum. It’s the self-doubt, the ‘what’s the point’, the ‘this is shit’ (Hemingway - who I named my goldfish after for inspiration - said ‘Every first draft is shit’, so that’s some comfort.)

But I cannot not write. That’s why I keep this blog, that’s why I get up stupidly early every morning, that’s why I’m writing this now. Writing is like an addiction. But the creative process constantly fascinates me. The way ideas are generated (literally five minutes ago I thought of a new way to develop an idea I’m working on – I’m pretty excited by this little burst of inspiration already…), the way ideas develop, how the story forms on the page and how powerful words can be.

I truthfully don’t know if what I’ve got is any good or whether it is something that could sell. There’s a lot of work to do and lots of changes to be made. I need to work on character a lot, motivation, emotional drive, the whys and hows. I’ve got lots to do on the voice and tone. I need to make everything believable. I need to make an essentially bad character and his actions sympathetic. I probably need to do a lot more research, maybe talk to some experts about some of the stuff I’ve written about (I probably should have done more of this a few months ago rather than relying on an over-active imagination and wikipedia). I’ve got pages of notes to wade through and interpret and use. I also want to cut the words down and just make it sharper, cutting the flab. ‘Art is the elimination of the unnecessary’ said Aristotle.

Here’s to a few months (hopefully not years…) of hard editing and objective thinking (the plan is a quick edit followed by a few weeks away from it completely and then a comprehensive edit). I can’t wait to read it all the way through to see what I’ve really got. And if it’s no good and no one wants to publish it (a grueling task that I’m really not looking forward to!) then I’ve got my next few ideas ready to be worked on, including one based around a brewery…

I am aware that this post isn't about beer. I just fancied putting up something a little different. Plus I wanted to try and document part of the writing process for me and maybe learn about how other writers associate with their own pieces. If you come here expecting beer today then I'm sorry, but I will tell you that I had a simply glorious glass of Stone's Imperial Russian Stout in The Rake on Saturday. That is one helluva beer and if my story were to be likened to any beer out there then I think that could be the one.

Beer and Fiction

I don’t just write about beer. I own two pencils: one for beer, one for fiction. I’ve worked on a couple of screenplays and I’ve just started a novel. Generally I write fiction in the morning before work and I write about food and beer in the evenings. What I’ve realised recently is that the two are not mutually exclusive.

When I write fiction I’m creating whole worlds: entire cities of characters; moods, tones, emotions; plot, drive, pace, desire; laughter, tears, sex, violence; places, colours, sounds, smells, temperatures; heroes, villains, lovers. And I do this all with the words that I order on the page.

A lot of my beer writing comes in the form of tasting notes. Sometimes I write these up for the blog, other times they stay in my notebook for my own reference and because I’m a beer geek. But writing tasting notes is not just an exercise in beer geekyness; it wakes up my creativity: when I smell and taste a beer I have to connect something real and physical with memories I have of flavours and experiences and then put words to them. And I think about potential food pairing too, matching flavours, ingredients, combinations, textures, temperatures, recipes.

Beer writing is me experiencing something tangible that is in front of me; fiction is created within me. Yet both beer and fiction have colours and flavours and textures and smells; both require me to think creatively to be able to describe what I experience – real world or story world; both describe the sensations of the senses; both need to be written well to be best understood; both have my own style. Both allow me to flex my bulging writing muscle.

(Please Note: I am not a washed up drunk wannabe screenwriter or novelist who uses the title of ‘Beer Writer’ to excuse myself, and I never write when I’ve had more than one beer – that’s a slippery downward slope! It is perhaps worth noting that some of the greatest writers of all time have been tremendous drunks: Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Truman Capote, William Faulkner…)