the tooth fairy

Raisin Bran. Again. Every morning for the last five years. "Goddamn it," Jake Naughton sighs, then looks up at his wife, busying herself with the kettle on the other side of the kitchen. The smell of peppermint tea making his stomach even more depressed than the damned Raisin Bran. "I want eggs."

Sarah doesn't look up. "You always want eggs. Drink your prune juice, I've made tea."

"I don't want tea, I want--"

"Jake, honey, please, not again, OK?"

He goes back to staring at the brown cardboardy flakes, going soggy in his bowl. Eggs, home fries, bacon, sausage, grilled tomato and a big pot of freshly-brewed coffee. Doesn't even have to be that fancy stuff they sell down at Starbucks, just regular black-as-tar squad room coffee. He sighs again, and drinks his prune juice instead.

"Did I tell you Cathy Albright's boy Skip got a football scholarship to RMU?" Sarah says, coming to the kitchen table with two cups of stinky peppermint tea and the morning mail. "She's got a brand-new bathroom suite too, you should see it Jake, it's like a palace in there -- I was afraid to pee!" she chuckles, shaking her head at the thought of Cathy Albright's bathroom. "Marble tiles came all the way from Italy, can you believe that?"

Jake doesn't say anything, just crunches joylessly on a spoonful of Raisin Bran that tastes like it's come all the way out to Denver PA in the backside of a cat. He doesn't tell her that Cathy Albright's husband's a drunk with a thing for hookers.
Sarah launches into some story about how one of her friends has started 'quilting for world peace', but Jake just tunes her out -- he's had thirty years' practice -- and runs through everything he's got to do today. Court in the morning, then an update on the Goldberg case, then a press conference and a meeting with the mayor and his 'advisors'. Greasy little college boys who've never done a day's work in their lives telling him how to keep the junkies from shooting-up on Walnut Street. The joys of being Chief of Police in an election year.

He pushes the bowl of raisin bran away and picks up the mail. Bill, bill, something from the mayor's office, Publishers' Clearing House, someone trying to sell them aluminum siding... and right at the bottom of the pile an envelope with one of those printed labels and a Fresno postmark. There's something lumpy in it and suddenly the Raisin Bran is the least of his troubles.

"Jake? Jake, are you OK?" Sarah, sounding concerned. "Jake, do you need one of your pills?"

He crosses to the kitchen cabinets, feeling numb, holding the envelope by the corner, even though he knows it's got to be covered with every postal worker's fingerprints from here to the San Joaquin Valley, then carefully slits it open with a clean kitchen knife.

"Jake?"

Sitting in the bottom of the envelope is a lock of red hair, and a single human tooth.

Sex and Droogs and Rock and Roll

OK, so I lied about the sex and the rock and roll, but hey: one out of three ain’t bad. As Meatloaf sort of said. The tumbleweed spell in our ‘Win Skeleton Bob Stuff’ competition is over! Now, not only do we have John’s homage to my bearded greatness, but That Girl has been spotted in Edinburgh with lots of COLD GRANITEY goodness.

And in a bowler hat as well! How stylish is that?

So remember folks – get your entries in now! Or sooner if you’ve got access to some sort time-travely machine thing. In which case you can drop your photo off along with the winning numbers for this Friday’s Euro Millions Lottery draw... £125,000,000 You could buy a whole box of bowler hats for that!

Still too tall

Well, the Edgar shortlists are out, and once more I am too tall. It’s the Daggers all over again I tells ya, in a piratey voice.

But congratulations to those who did make the cut – especially Mr Guthrie – though like a lot of people I’m really surprised to see a Laura Lippman shaped hole in the shortlists. Me, I can understand... but Laura?

Ah well: looking on the bright side, that’s one less thing to gather dust around the house. Think of all the hours cleaning we’ve been spared!

And kudos to St Martin’s for putting me up for it: I promise, should it ever happen again, I’ll find some sort of ditch to stand in, so I don’t look so big. And Laura, if you’re listening, you can come stand next to me*. I promise to keep my hands to myself ;}#

* I was going to say ‘there’s room in my hole for two’, but you know the kind of smutty comments that would get...

Day three and we've already had to eat one of the Sherpas...

Well I say 'had to', but you know what it's like after you've had a couple of glasses of wine. She Who Must has had to extend her trip to Darkest Fife – her dad's back has gone again and they're all out looking for it. So that leaves me and the cat to fend for ourselves for another night.

But - on the plus side - I've managed to get a day ahead of myself on NDC! Bells and trumpets and all that. On the less plussy side we've already had one power cut this morning. It would be just my bloody luck to get a day ahead then the electricity goes FUT! and I'm right back where I started. Only sitting in the dark.

And now - to the writing!

Does Size Really Matter?*

A couple of days ago Mr McLean was whinging on about having to revise his 70,000 word novel, picking up on a similar moan by Mr White who has to do the same for 75,000 words. Now my initial reaction was to call Russel a big girly boy for writing such small books. My second reaction was to go have a cup of tea and a biscuit. My third reaction involved having a bit of a scratch, and number four was to take a good look at my current word count: just a smidgeon over 37K. And I'm only 22% of the way through. So instead of having more than half a book under my belt, I've only got a fifth. Holy Mary Mother of Duncan!

"How come you must write such big fat books then, Oh Bearded One?" I hear you cry. Well, it's in my contract: 150,000 words. COLD GRANITE weighed in at about 128K-ish, DYING LIGHT at 120K plus change (though the first draft was 150,538 - I was something of an editing monster on that one). And this one is going to be about the same.

I think it's got something to do with the fact I'm writing police procedurals. No matter what the TV and books tell you, the police don't usually have the luxury of concentrating on one case, so I like to have at least three on the go. Sometimes more. Which makes for a bigger book. Notice I don't say a better book, just bigger. There's nothing wrong with writing 75K novels. Wish I could get away with it myself. I'd be on the downhill run by now. But I'm not, and won't be for ages yet. 120K to 150K just happens to be the amount of space I need to tell the story.

To parade that old saw horse once more: the size of your wordcount isn't important, it's what you do with it that counts.

* And in the land of freaky coincidences, Mr James has blogged about much the same thing today. Weird. But I'm going to do it anyway.

"Alllllll by myse-e-elf..."

Cue weeping violins and other musical instruments with assorted sores and pustules, for She Who Must is away tonight and tomorrow night too! This means it's just me and the cat. And a steak. But the cat's not getting any of that. Coz she's got catfood.

And as there's bugger all on the telly, it means I have no excuse to not be writing all evening as well as all day. Hurrah. In a knackering, eyes like devilled eggs kind of way. At least I've now caught up after Monday's defragathon, so anything else I get written today will be a bonus. I'm not saying it'll be any good, but it'll still be a bonus.

And looking on the positive side - while I was shopping for stuff what to go with my steak I did see the paperback of Cold Granite! In my local Tesco! About bloody time too - given that they're the closest store to my house and we must have spent a bloody fortune in there over the years.

I made sure all the copies were face-out, obliterating everyone else's books. Then felt guilty about it and put them all back the way they were. Then felt silly about feeling guilty, but didn't shift them about again. I'm a good boy, I am... The book's not on the Tesco Chart yet, but I know it's on the ASDA one, because I've seen it in there (number 13). Or rather I didn't see it, just the sold-out type hole where it was meant to be. Which is cool. AND it was number 1 in WH Smiths last Friday as well.

AND as if that's not enough of a trouser-swelling masterstroke, a lovely gentleman of who's work I am a great admirer spotted the advert to your left on the Telegraph online website.

So for now mine ego knows no bounds and my head would have swollen to the size of a beach ball, if it weren't for the fact my glasses would fall off and then I wouldn't be able to see. And would probably bump into things. Which would hurt.

We now return you to our regular plaintive wailing.

"Allllll by myse-e-elf, don' wanna be..."

Tis the season to be Memey

This is all Trace’s fault. And I’m too lazy to think up anything post-flavoured this morning. Still trying to catch up for Monday’s unscheduled down time. Speaking in tiny sentences. No milk left for tea.

Your Animal Personality

Your Power Animal: Shark Animal You Were in a Past Life: Polar Bear You have a strong character - you are an aggressive, ambitious, go-getter. You were born to lead.

The Animal Personality Test

OK, so allegedly I used to be a polar bear (They eat penguins, don’t they? Or is it KitKats, I can never remember. But they do advertise Fresca and mints of some variety.) and my power animal is a shark... So how come my icon picture thing is a monkey with a gun? I mean, OK, it’s eerily appropriate, but still: Polar Bear, Shark – where the hell does ‘Monkey With A Gun’ come from?

Some people shouldn’t be allowed to breed.

Defrag me Big Boy...

Defrag me like I’ve never been defragged before! And so on and so forth. I told Googling Brother this weekend that my computer was behaving in an even more steam-powered manner than usual. The rotten machine takes for ever to start up these days and when I’m on a roll the words don’t appear till long after I’ve typed the damn things. This is frustrating and smells of poo.

“Well,” he said, scratching his pointy, shaven head, “have you tried defragmenting your hard drive?” OK, why not? I thought, it’s worth a go. So he came out on Sunday avec SIL Kim and the Rowanberry. And a defraging we did go. Guess how long it took. Go on, guess. Nope, you’re not even close. Seven on Sunday evening through till five on Tuesday morning. Thirty four hours.

THIRTY FOUR HOURS - without a computer.

And did I spend my day productively? Did I go dig the garden? Did I plot the next part of the NDC*? Did I paint my naked body green and hide in the field out back to startle the jackdaws? Did I heckers like. Which now means I’m behind with the writing. Booo, hisss... But my hard drive looks as smooth and inviting as a gently-tanned, cellulite-free, young lady’s thigh. Which is always a good thing.

Right, now I have to go play catch-up. Mind the store for me, will you?

* With thanks to Jess for the suggestion: it’s a lot less of pain to type than TNFNADC.

OK, it's a tiny landmark, but it's a landmark nonetheless

Yes, I’ve crossed an itsy-bitsy Rubicon. Page one hundred of TBFNADC* has come and gone – vwooooooom... Well, maybe not ‘vwooooooom’, but probably the same sound effect you’d get by applying an industrial belt sander to any reasonably overweight politician.

Dunno why, but I always think that the first hundred are some of the hardest pages to write. Especially when you consider that it’s less than 20% of the total length of the book. Yup, I’m aiming at 165,000 words for TBFNADC**. That’ll mean I can cut a good 10% out in the editing, and still hit my contractual length.

Of course, what’s probably going to happen is that I’ll make the story as long as it needs to be, and worry about it then. But I’m hoping it’s not going to come in much under 130,000. I have my reputation to consider, after all.

But right now I’m on target to make my 165,000 words by the time my deadline looms over the horizon looking for small dogs and children to eat. MUNCH, MUNCH, MUNCH!!! And then I’ll be back to work. Which is actually more of a deadline than my deadline. And then Dying Light will be out and all will be well with the world (except in certain parts of East Anglia, where herds of rampaging weevils will decimate the local knitted herring populations).

Well, that’s what I think anyway.

* The Book Formerly Known As Dead Centre
** I have GOT to find a better acronym than that.

"And when did you last see your Plan?"

Ah yes, I knew it was going to happen sooner or later – the book and the plan have parted company. Publicly they’re saying it was a mutual decision, that they’ve both decided to pursue separate projects, and that they wish each other nothing but success. But secretly we know that there’s more than just creative differences at the root of it.

The plan wanted to keep going straight ahead, while the book wanted ‘some space’. i.e. it wanted to see 'other people'. People not in the plan. And it wanted them to do things. DIRTY THINGS! (OK, so technically there were dirty things in the plan already, but they were lowercase dirty, not uppercase. And it makes a difference.)

So as things stand, the plan gets to keep the first 60 or 70 pages, but the book’s been awarded custody of the rest. It fluttered it’s eyelashes for the divorce court and now gets 89% of the remaining pages. Personally I think the plan got screwed. Should have gotten a better lawyer. But that’s the way the cookie crumbles these days – the book gets all the pages and the plan’s lucky to see them on weekends.

Sure, there will be the odd page that will miss the plan, but most of them will grow up never knowing its warm parental embrace.

And tonight the book is dressing up slutty* and going out, looking to pick up a new plan to be the father of its pages.

The sad thing is, I know that even if the book does find someone new, it’s going to get bored before too long, and then it’ll be back to the divorce courts and the bitter recriminations. And the whole sad, shameful cycle will start all over again.

My pages are the product of a broken home!

* Incidentally, my version of Word doesn’t recognise the word ‘slutty’, suggesting I use ‘suttee’ or ‘sludgy’ instead. NEITHER of which is even close. Especially not ‘suttee’ which is Indian for some seriously freaked-out scary shit.

Don’t read this!

Because it isn’t really an update, I just got fed up looking at all that pink wool.

Websitearama

HarperCollins, blessed be thy name, have been doing a review thing of the websites belonging to their writers. And lo: I hath been reviewed and found to be ‘not crap’. But HC’s reviewed didst look upon the furrowed fields of mine website and said, “How come this bearded bloke hath not sample chapters from his books? And where is the link to that AuthorTracker thing?” And mine editor didst squint at her monitor for a bit and then agree.

Lo, we are in times of great change! Or we will be when I can get around to doing something about it. Which will be once I’ve got a bit ahead of myself on Book 3 (no longer to be referred to as ‘Dead Centre’ as the title has been judged and found to be wanting).

So, unto thee, mighty commenters and lurkers I do make this plea: “anything else you think I should be adding?” For I have within my mind a plan to get rid of the ‘News’ section, as I post everything here on the blog anyway. Events I shall allow to remain, for they give pointers to mine future bounty! But Short stories will be removed from mine ‘Extras’ bit and given a tab of their own. A-a-aaaaaaamen...

Lola and the Snake

Her name was Lola, and yea, she was a showgirl. I met her down in Fresno, dancing in this dive down by the freeway. Shaking her money-makers for hairy ass truckers and rumpled salesmen. I remember she had this tattoo: a snake, coiling all the way from her stomach round to her shoulder blades. And every time she slid round that pole it looked like it was alive. Writhing round her body.

And it was some body: legs like you wouldn’t believe, skin like ivory silk, a spatter of freckles between her breasts, hair like fire, face like an angel... Too good to waste. Far too good.

She screams as the knife goes in. Even though I’m being gentle. She screams and I have to hit her. Again and again and again. Until she doesn’t scream any more. Just lies there, twisted and pale in the empty car park round the back of Bobby’s Bar And Grill. The neon sign flashes on and off in lazy purple waves as she bleeds out onto the asphalt. On. Off. On. Off.

This is not good. I like it when they wriggle. But I’ll take what I can get.

My phone goes as I’m putting the shovel back in the car – Agent Patterson, wanting to know if I’ll be in the field office tomorrow. He’s a nice enough kid, but green like you wouldn’t believe. So I listen to him whine about his caseload as I tidy up, making sure Lola’s final resting place isn’t going to be found anytime soon.

That’s what pisses me off about these morons with their shallow graves. You want caught? Go hand yourself in to the nearest cop and stop wasting everyone’s time. Fuckwad. Lola’s buried nice and deep, covered in compost accelerant to speed up the process. And they won’t be identifying her from any dental records either. I got her teeth in my pocket. I toss them out the window, one by one, as I drive back into town. All except the last one, which I’ll mail to a Police Chief in Denver I know gets off on this kind of thing.

Poor bastard’s been chasing me for years.

Sometimes the writing is its own reward

Yup, the days role by, the nights are fair drawin’ oot, and I’m writing sentences like this one:

“So how come Rickards recognises this guy’s arse then? He been there?”*

Ah yes, the keyboard is indeed mightier than the sword... Actually that’s a blatant lie. If the keyboard really were mightier than the sword then Vikings would have used them. Stands to reason doesn’t it? They’d pile out of their longboats brandishing their Acers and Logitechs, while the true berserkers screamed bloody murder and hacked away with their Microsoft Naturals. Hack and slash dude. Making little 'click-sproinnnng' noises.

Anyway, in other, less warlike news: Little Miss has been fit free since Saturday. Or if she’s had any we’ve not seen them. Which isn’t quite the same thing. And I’m off to the accountant today to find out if I’m skint, rolling in it, or somewhere in-between (fingers crossed for ‘rolling in it’... fingers crossed for ‘rolling in it’!).

And last, but not least, who'd a thunk it?**

You Are a Martini

There's no other way to say it: you're a total lush. You hold your liquor well, and you hold a lot of it!

What Mixed Drink Are You?

* See: you want to appear in one of my books, you get what you get.
** With thanks to Karla for the link.

Petit Mal

Every morning starts the same way in our house – the radio alarm goes off at 06:45 and we stick it on snooze. It’s Classic FM on our radio alarm, so the snooze button comes in handy: seven minutes is just about long enough to get past the bloody adverts. The next thing that happens is some grumbling about how early it is, and then Little Miss AKA: Grendel, AKA: Kitty Poo Cat, comes treadling up the duvet and sits on my chest, purring like a mad thing and demanding her early morning cat sweeties.

Grendel favours Tesco’s ‘Combinos’, a sort of chickeny pellet in a crunchy cheese-ish shell. They look a bit like tiny pillows. Or savoury tick-tacs*. She parks herself on my chest and doesn’t move until she’s been fed three of them. One. Two. Three. And that’s when she had her fit. Just a small one, no more than thirty or forty seconds, but it was obvious something was wrong. Needless to say, She Who Must and I are very, very worried.

So, we take her to the vet (WHICH SHE DOES NOT LIKE) where a man who looks just out of short trousers proceeds to examine her, and takes her temperature. Not very dignified. I have to say: I’m glad my doctor didn’t break out the long, glass thermometer and KY Jelly when I was there on Friday. Mind you, some people will pay for ladies to dress up as nurses and do just that. Probably with a rolling pin**. Different strokes and all that.

And then he tells us she’s probably had a petit mal seizure. Which, to be honest, doesn’t make us feel any better.

But, other than her trembling, falling over and looking a bit off the legs for that wee spell this morning, she’s been fine. In fact the trip to the vet – which involved much yowling and panting on her behalf – seems to have been the low point of her day as far as she’s concerned. And the worst of it is she’ll have to go back again on Tuesday for a blood test.

Today the vet got lucky. I think if he tries that thermometer trick on her again she’s going to have his testicles off. If it happens I’ll post a picture...

* Which would be cool. I’d buy Pickled Onion tick-tacs.
** If you’re playing along at home, for God’s sake watch out for splinters.

Deviant Boy

Went to the doctors today to find out why I’m having difficulty breathing and sleeping these days. And according to Dr Watson* I have a deviated septum**. Bad septum, naughty! And there was me thinking deviancy was confined to the backblogs round here.

Anyway, it turns out they can do some sort of fancy nostril surgery, using a potato peeler and a photo of Gloria Hunniford in the nude. Sounds like a job for INoGITCH Health Insurance! Hurrah! Well, not hurrah for the naked Gloria Hunnifordishness, but you know what I mean. It’ll be nice to breathe properly again.

Mind you, knowing my luck they’ll do it the same week the book comes out, and I’ll be doing all my PR photos and interviews looking like the Elephant Man and sounding like I’ve jammed a pickled egg up each nostril.

And speaking of deviancy, I wrote this yesterday:

“They made it back to the station by the skin of their teeth – Logan heading for the press conference, Rickards back to his collection of bestiality DVDs and videos.”

Now away with you – me and my deviant nose have work to do...

* No, seriously, I’m not making this up – I’m a crime write-ist and I have my very own Doctor Watson. Not to mention that a major character in my books is WPC Jackie Watson. Oh the irony. OK, it’s not a HUGE AMOUNT of irony, but it’s kinda ironic-ish.
** In case you’re wondering, a septum is that little cartilage bit in between your nostrils, or ‘bogie burrows’ as the delightful little child in the doctor’s waiting room liked to call them, as he went a burrowin’.

Released into the wild!

No, not Googling Brother*, he’s still only allowed out on supervised ‘Care In The Community’ visits with armed guards from the sanatorium. No, what’s out is the paperback of Cold Granite, a whole four days early! And it’s already at Number 24 (with a bullet**), though I’m not sure out of what. At least 25 though. Hurrah! Take that Ralph Fiennes with your big constantly gardening book.

Which brings me to the COMPETITIONTASTIC segment of today’s programming.

As of Monday, the UK will be swamped in advertising for COLD GRANTE. Well, when I say ‘swamped’ I mean ‘made a bit damp’*** Well, there’ll be some. (Agent Phil says that WH Smiths have got posters up already – me and Joe Brand cheek, and indeed, jowl) And if you can take a photo of you with the advertising, or the book, you’re in with the chance of winning an exclusive SKELETON BOB type prize. Or a signed book and some funky foreign liquorish. Or the adoration / ridicule of your peers depending on which way the wind is blowing.

Don’t delay: snap today****! (or Monday when the ads come out)

* How sane does he look? Seriously - would you have a kid with that?
** Well, a machete.
*** NO! No more smut! Stop it!
**** Of course, you realise that this is probably going to result in the internet equivalent of tumbleweed as no one bothers to enter... Ah well, that just means I’ll keep ALL the goodies!

Today’s gonna be tough

Yup, I’m not looking forward to today’s little writing-fest. Not because I’ve got a difficult scene to do, or write-ist’s block, or a really nasty boil on the end of my typing finger, but once more we have wind (atmospheric, not intestinal). Now I know it’s not a hurricane, or a tornado, this is just your common or garden wind. The only trouble is it’s blowing in just the right direction to make the veranda roof howl.

My study is at the back of the house and looks out, through the veranda and onto the garden and the fields beyond. Nice view. But the people who had the house before us installed a patented whistling veranda roof – I think you have to order them specially from B&Q – so every time the wind blows from points south, the thing honks, whooooms, pwooooos and phwumps.

Right now it sounds like a horde of school kids with ADD having a ‘who can make the most noise on a recorder’ competition. Only they’re all going at once. Little sods.

And I can’t find the headphones I used to wear at work, so I’ve got Paul Weller cranked up to an ear-wax-melting volume to try and drown it out. And my fingers are cold. And things cost more than they used to. Whinge, moan, whinge, etc.

Like I say, it’s going to be a tough day’s writing.

Derby day

You probably already know this, but Mr Quertermous has started an online magazine for short, nasty crime fiction. I would give it a plug, but then he didn’t plug Skeleton Bob, so why should I? Eh? Eh?

Oh, all right then. Ladies and gentlemen: Demolition. Oh and I can recommend Victor Gischler’s NIGHT SCHOOL.

Dear God, when will it ever end?

Right now – that’s when. Yes, the shameless Hypeathon is now at an end. Time for disappointed expectations and uncomfortable underwear (possibly due to leftover bits of bacon rubble*), and the inevitable recriminations and general finger pointing**.

So, Ladies and gentlemen, Nasty Uncle Stuart Productions are proud to present:

Skeleton Bob and the Witch's Hat

And now I’m going to get back to work.

* No, that’s not a euphemism. And you’ve got a filthy mind for thinking it was!
** By reading this footnote you hereby absolve Stuart MacBride and all subsidiaries, whole and partial, from any blame / sins / and claims for damage.

Cheesy Sex

Went for a walk at lunchtime today. This is something I used to do when I was still working full time and writing in the evenings (unless I was chained to my desk with a nasty sandwich and a Herculean pile of work to get through). I’d stay up late writing tales of murder and moderate mayhem, then sleep, then commute to work, then work then go for a walk to the supermarket and think about what I’d written the night before and what was coming next.

So, what the hell – sure it’s raining, but I’ve been sat here on my backside all year, why not go for a walk?

And I did.

There’s a dirty big hill and what amounts to a cliff between me and the point I turned round. The warning sign says “12%”, so it’s OK going down the way and a bit of a bastard coming back. And there’s no supermarket at the other end to make it feel like I’m actually walking somewhere for a reason.

BUT there was something. At the bottom of the 12% cliff there’s a sort of unofficial parking area where lazy bastards dump things. Or go for romantic encounters... Yup, in a parked car, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night. Probably with someone else’s spouse.

I was moderately surprised to see, lying by the side of the road, three empty Dairylea Dipper packets and a couple of used condoms.

The mind shudders.

Wonder if they used those little bacon rubbly bits? Textured for his and her pleasure.

An embarrassment of riches*

Yes, the first review of the new Skeleton Bob is in**! The world famous James Oswald had this to say:

Make no bones about it, you'll laugh and you'll be moved to tears by the latest story from the life of poor Skeleton Bob.

No skin, no muscles, just a hand-knitted pink romper suit to his name. But times are hard, and Bob needs to earn some cash. Who would employ such an unluckly fellow?

In Skeleton Bob and the Witches Hat, we see our young hero grow, if not in stature, then in maturity. He learns that the world is not always kind to the deformed, and that a bargain is not always what it seems.

A poignant tale, sly and witty, Skeleton Bob and the Witches Hat takes the reader to places he never could have imagined. Places he might well wish he never had imagined.

Thanks James! Next stop the Times bestseller list.

* Well, embarrassing because there’s only one of them, but it’s a start, yes?
** As we continue with our shameless hypeathon in true Lee Goldberg stylie.

Think Pink

Ah yes, the blessed day approacheth - Nephew Logan has headed back to the great green world of Ireland, so Skeleton Bob is on his way. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. (Oh Stuart – you tease!)* and in true television fashion, I’ve decided to hype the hell out of it, so you can all be bitterly disappointed when it finally airs and you can see the special effects are a bit ropey and some of the acting is, frankly, pants. Big hairy, old lady pants that smell of lavender and wee.

Now all I need is a big flashy trailer that shows all the best bits, has lots of explosions, and spoils the plot when you see the full thing. Yup, that sounds like the business to me.

Maybe I should try and corrupt other channels too – anyone out there fancy going pink and knitted?

* No: I’m not just doing this because I’ve got nothing better to post about today. How dare you! OK, maybe laziness is partly responsible. Only partly. Honest. It’s all Sky TV’s fault... Leave me alone!

I’m all ears

Hello, I’m a write-ist: please tell me how to do my job. I’m not aware of saying that last part out loud, but I must be, because people seem to keep taking me up on it. I was at a birthday party last night (no, not old boy Rickards’s, that’s just a spooky coincidence) and as usual when people found out what I do for a living the reaction was either, A: I loved your book! – not surprisingly this is my favourite reaction, bearded egomaniac that I am; B: are you going to try and make a career out it? (brother to the ‘any luck?’ question); or C: You should write like this... Oh and D: You got loads of stuff wrong, therefore you are an idiot. Which generally then leads to ‘C’.

For now we’ll ignore A,B,and D. Because I feel like it. OK, everyone’s entitled to their own opinion, but why the hell do people automatically think they’re in a position to tell writers how / what to write? Do I go up to accountants at parties and tell them how to add up? Bakers how to make bread? Politicians how to be sleazy little bastards? Or road sweepers that they’re doing it all wrong and Ruth Rendel sweeps left to right, NOT right to left, and why can’t you sweep more like her...?

Not to mention this one bloke my parents know who asks if I’m 'in full time employment yet' every single time we’ve seen him for the last eleven years. Time for a swift poke in the eye there I think.

But being a ‘public figure’* one can either wear a fixed smile and nod, or shove a canapé up their nose, grab them in a headlock and bounce their face off the corner of a table. Repeatedly. And then every time they meet someone they’ll tell them what an arsehole that bloke what writes them Cold Granite books is.

* Note the little ironic, one-eared quote bunnies, which are like normal ironic quote bunnies only you have to take a pair of pruning shear to them. There’s a lot of blood and squealing involved, but it’s worth it.**
** Please note: Stuart does not condone cutting the ears off bunny rabbits. It’s very, very naughty! Unless they’re dead, in which case knock yourself out.

Straddling genre boundaries like an incontinent ferret...

I have a lurking habit. Well, not so much of a habit, I mean I can quit whenever I feel like, you know, I just... don’t feel like it just now. One of the places I lurk is Mr Scalzi’s Whatever. Which is where the trouble started. I was in the very final round of revisions for Dying Light – the edit where anything you change costs the publisher money and gets you a reputation for being an awkward poo head, when I came across this post. I don’t know how I managed to miss the original call to arms, but I did.

Mr S had been slated to edit an issue of that fine Science Fiction quarterly periodical: Subterranean. This was to be the ‘Big Honkin’ Sci-Fi Cliché’ issue, and as I read I thought, ‘That would be fun. Wouldn’t that be fun Stuart? You could have a go at that.’ And then I thought, ‘Bugger off brain! Leave me alone, I’ve got an edit to finish or HarperCollins are going to break my knees.’ And then my brain went all quiet for a bit. Then it started whispering again. So I wrote a story.

And Mr Scalzi bought it. Hurrah! MONEY! Er... I mean, ART! Yes, art... ahem... money’s not important when... Oh look! A bee!

So come the spring you’ll be able to revel in many fine tales of Sci-Fi clichédom and one of mine as well. Though I kinda cheated and shovelled in as many clichés as I could: Time travel, Martians, William Shakespeare, Pope Rickards The Forth, War... None of this ‘less is more’ – bollocks. More is more. That’s why it’s called ‘more’. Clue’s in the name.

If you’ve been reading my mindless ramblings here for a while you’ll know that Science Fiction is responsible for me being here today. If you haven’t: shame on you! HarperCollins were considering a Sci-Fi novel of mine when they caught sight of Cold Granite and thought that would be a MUCH better idea. So it’s been nice to get back to the genre that got me published. Even if it wasn’t the Sci-Fi novel that sold.

And hopefully it’ll encourage a few more people to try out the crime fiction too. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll get to go to conventions where the men dress like killer robots and the ladies wear silver bikinis...

Well, it’s a dream.

Kitten Kerplunk

A new craze is sweeping the globe – Kitten Kerplunk. This is extreme danger sport at its most raw and challenging. If you’ve never played it, you’ve never really stared death in the face. Base Jumping is for wimps. Kitten Kerplunk is what REAL daredevils get up to.

The game itself is easy enough – you take one large artificial tree, the kind that you build 'a branch at a time' around a central plastic pole. Construct your tree and hand it with all manner of shiny dangly things. This gets the cat all excited. Now, leave the tree up for two to four weeks, then remove all the decorations. This gets the cat all annoyed and into the now bare tree. OK, it sounds like a lot of preparation, but believe me: it’s worth it.

Now you’re ready to play!!!

Each player takes turns to remove a branch from the artificial tree, folding it up nice and neatly and placing it back in the box ready for the next game. So far so good. Sometimes the cat climbs up, sometimes the cat climbs down, but always the cat lurks within the tree... When you get to the layer the cat is lurking in it’s called ‘Kittening Out’. This is where things start to get dangerous: you still have to remove the branches all round the cat.

One of three things will happen:

1. The cat falls out of the tree.
2. The cat climbs down from the tree and goes off somewhere to sulk and wash its bum.
3. The cat scrambles up the player’s chest / arm / back using every claw its got.

The winning player is the one with the most remaining epidermis by the time the whole tree is back in the box.

Happy Kittening!

Big Name Author Boy

Mark Bolan and his amazing performing hair...

Oh yes, I may have to get myself a Mark-Bolan-style wig, drug habit and drink problem, for I’m off to tour the good old US of A. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow (well, definitely not today or tomorrow as I’ve not packed and don’t have a ticket), but towards the end of August / beginning of Septemberish. For I am Author Boy!

Why do I say this? Because a copy of the St. Martin’s Minotaur Spring – Summer 2006 catalogue has recently come into my possession. And there, on page 48 is ‘DYING LIGHT’ (and page 49 as well – a two page write-up with lots of glowing reviews, coz I is special*) with the words ‘National Author Tour’ attached to it. EEEEEEK! Cue girly jumping up and down with optional elbow waving.

How cool is that? A trip to the States, all the buffalo wings I can eat, champagne, caviar, hot and cold running strippers**. St. Martin’s Press: gotta love them, because they’re great. The exact dates, venues, quantity of buffalo wings have yet to be confirmed, but you can bet your bottom dollar I’ll be boasting my little fuzzy head off when they are.

Next stop groupiesville!

* In a bumbling about, needing help to tie my own shoelaces kind of way.
** Well, it’s never as much fun if they just stand still: “Chase me, chase me!”

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This is the voice of the Mysterons...

Well, it isn’t really – it’s just me speaking into a half drunk mug of tea, so it sounds all deep and spooky. And smells of tea. Anyway, today we’re having Nephew Logan, his dad (Scott) and mum (Catherine)* up to visit. Which is nice. Stops me getting cracking with Book Number The Three though. Sigh. I’m at that pivotal point on the old writing rollercoaster where the rickety car has finally click-clanked its way to the top of the first rise and teeters on the brink. From here you can see the gasworks, the council flats, the sewage works and a splatter of vomit on the tracks. And all of a sudden: WHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHOSH! It’s all screaming and yet more vomit.

I’ve performed the usual benedictions of someone about to do something stupid and dangerous: updated my life insurance, made out my will, put on a clean pair of pants**... or the write-ist’s equivalent (which includes clean pants in case you’re wondering), but I need that final wee gust of wind before the downward plunge begins.

Mind you – having worked out just how many pages I’ve got to do each and every day to make my deadline, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not ‘The World’s Stupidest Man!’ Still too late to worry about that now. Just have to hold on tight and hope for the best.

Whhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee... (blerrrrrggg...)

* They have to appear in brackets, because they do smell all of potatoes.
** No, not American ‘pants’ good old BRITISH PANTS! The kind you wear under your trousers. They come from Marks & Spencer in a variety of fetching colours. Now stop asking questions about my underwear!

First Monday of the year

Right, that’s us all back to normal now – She Who Must Bring Home The Bacon* is off to work (not exactly skipping and making with the happy la-la’s, but there you go), the in-laws are back off to Darkest Fife, and I’m sitting in front of the computer typing rubbish at an unknown quantity of people. Hurrah!

I promised you a retrospective of 2005, but I lied. No retrospective for you, naughty people. Come on, who wants to read about it anyway? What? Well... no... shut up! ... leave me alone! OK, OK: Jesus...

What I did do on my 2005 (by Stuart aged six and a half)

January:

The first draft of what will become DYING LIGHT is finished! And at last the world can see I’m much prettier than J Rickards ESQ and my shirt fits too.

February:

I reveal my guilty secret – I am to become an bearded write-ist. And the cat gets bugs in her lugs.

March:

A visit to Norway leads to fancy food, nice people and a mauling by Norwegian national radio and other assorted journalists. I go to London and learn how to manuipulate the media Bwahahahahaaaa...

April:

I give up the day job (for a year) and almost get blinded by the cat, then it was the book launch! Lovely people from Ottakar’s ply me and a weirdo with wine and canapés. Only I don’t get any of the canapés.

May:

Fighting like a bastard to drag up a new title for book 2 and scientists working in the shed at the bottom of our garden come up with a way to help those poor souls afflicted with naked chin syndrome.

June:

BRAS! Lovely women’s bras! and then some rotten buggers make fun of me to win books from the naughty, evil Lynn. And and there are slugs in my garden.

July:

HARROGATE! One of the high points of the year. And as if that wasn’t bounty enough, I also got two books from a pair of lovely ladies and a cat-sized quilt too!

August:

Edinburgh International Book Festival and reprobates! Reprobates I tells ya! And then I go and spoil it all by making fun of some poor wee lad who ended up losing his virginity without thinking...

September:

Fist instalment of Skeleton Bob is unleashed on an unsuspecting world, and She Who Musts laments another birthday. And James gets an agent! Hurrah!

October:

I do my first solo event at Huntly and nobody throws anything. I don’t get a postcard from Italy and come up with one of the most stupid ideas I’ll have all year.

November:

My one-man Beardy Wierdy tour hits Lanark and I meet a nice performance poet. Ahem... Goodling Brother Christopher and SIL Kim come up with a new protagonist for my second series of books. And Stuart goes drinking in London. Again. But doesn't win no Daggers. And Trace gets a book deal!

December:

I am very stooopid and post these: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

* And cheese and mince and garlic and maybe a nice bottle of shiraz...

I have to be brief because there are in-laws waiting...

January smells. Not sure of what yet, but it definitely smells of something. It might be hard work. Difficult to tell with a cold.

Anyhow, as I’m midst-dinner-cooking I will refrain from the usual rambling nonsense. Ish. January will see three things coming to the online version of Casa MacBride: Skeleton Bob And The Witches Hat; something SUPER SECRET involving Book 3 and a quantity of custard; and a couple of competitions too.

Unfortunately Nephew Logan has chickenpox at the moment and has been a Skeleton Bob free zone – so no posting of the story online until he’s had a chance to get his sticky little paws on the original. I was thinking though (hard to believe, but it does happen) do you think the whole ‘Win a Signed Paperback and Some Liquorish’ thing is enough of an incentive, or should I spice it up with ‘And an Exclusive pickie of Skeleton Bob’ for the overall winner?

Tomorrow we’ll have a 2005 retrospective. Promise*.

* Promise not valid before 13th Feb 2006 in areas not covered with clingfilm.