A Happy Medium

There's an article by Buggerlugs Billingham* up on the Mystery Circus about authors who believe they're channelling the voice of their characters:

"I cannot abide those writers who go out of their way to make what we do sound deeply magical. Those who, in doing so, mystify the craft of writing, going so far as to suggest that it is a vocation rather than a job. Whether it's talk of muses, or of an almost supernatural possession by one's own characters, it always strikes me as bogus."

A good article, if a little short on profanity. He went off on a similar rant when we did that thing in Greenwich, and very funny it was too.

Me? I don't believe in that channelling bollocks any more than he does. How the hell do you commune with the spirit of a fictional character? At least if it were a real person you could make some sort of questionable argument for 'contact from beyond the grave', but for someone you made up? It's even worse than those Victorian table rappers -- by which I don't mean people born between 1837 and 1901, wearing their baseball caps the wrong way round and shouting out crap poetry. And what's with all the groin grabbing? Stop it now! You don't look hard and manly, you look like that greasy sex-offendery bloke who hangs around outside ASDA in a dirty tracksuit rubbing himself -- knock twice on the table if you want to pick up the gun, three times if you want to sleep with the big-chested blonde from chapter three...

But I do believe that writing isn't a completely conscious activity. I do some reading, do some research, do some mind-map-style free-form plotting, then go away and think for a bit. Then, usually when I'm trying to do something else -- like got to sleep, or hold a séance to channel the spirit of Marilyn Monroe's bra fitter -- a line, or scene, or chunk of dialogue will appear twixt my ears. It'd be an 'as if by magic' moment if I hadn't put in all that pre-work. It's just my subconscious finally catching up with the fact it's got some bloody work to do.

This is also why I'll suddenly find, five chapters later why I did that thing with the guy and the thing that looks like the first thing, but isn't. The back of my head's probably been telling me all along, I've just been too thick to pick up on it till now.

The thing is: it isn't a constant. I'm finding that the more I write, the more I'm writing with the front of my head. It takes a lot more conscious thought than it used to, but I hope the writing's better for it. That it'll take less editing to polish it to an acceptably shiny surface. One you can see your face in, if not eat your dinner off.

There are two characters in the books -- The Bastard Simon Rennie and WPC Jackie Watson -- who always bicker. I don't have to think about it, or plan it, they just do it automatically. With other characters I have to plan what they say, but this pair are a doddle. Put them in an enclosed space and they nip each other's heads. No idea why. My best guess is that I know the characters well enough, or they're so similar to someone I know, but the front of my brain has forgotten all about, that the little grey cells just fall into the a grove and the writing's automatic. But you never know.

Maybe I should get myself a headscarf, some dangly golden earrings and a crystal ball after all? I've got the legs for it. Are you there Marilyn's Bra Boy, grope once for yes and twice for no...

* He likes me to call him that because he sells many, many more books than I do and thinks it'll stop me spitting in his drinks at Harrogate.

Like driving boiled nails into my eyes

I'm genuinely alarmed how much my programming has deteriorated over the last wee while. All writing and no monkey-coding make Stuart thick as two shorts. So today are been fighting with a chunk of code that should have taken me half an hour tops. I've forgotten half the syntax and my SQL is laughable. "Ha!" That's how laughable it is.

Added to this is the very real possibility that the old desktop machine is terminally ill. Not just 'feeling a bit unwell', but coughing up great livery chunks of congealed blood, and exuding a smell of sour sweat and finality. Soon it will be dead and I shall mourn. We're going to try a hard drive transplant and see if that helps. I've not been able to find a local donor, so I've bought the required organs over the internet. Yes, I know it's morally reprehensible -- somewhere in the third world a PC will be forced to hirple along missing an 80 Gig IDE hard drive -- but needs must.

But the upshot of all this excuse-making is that I'm woefully behind with revamping the website. Fingers crossed it'll be done before I'm off to Dublin, but chances are slim. Bloody anorexic if we're being honest.

In other news I'm coming to the end of my non-stop whirlwind of events, signings and interviews. Well, I say 'whirlwind', but I think a gnat's far would have more chance of ripping the roof off your house. Anyway, I'll be at the Ottakar's in Bromsgrove on June the 7th with Dastardly Mark Billingham and the inimitable Mr Christopher Brookmyre. I get the feeling that if they sit us all in a row we're going to look like the three stooges. So it should be fun.

Other than that I'm up for a Barry, which is nice. Something else for me not to win ;}#

Right -- to the code!

You can still hear them screaming

We baked brownies yesterday. Yeah, they wriggle and scream a bit when you put them in the oven at first, but they soon settle down at 220 degrees and crisp up nicely. Why? (why make brownies, not why do they crisp up -- which is down to a hot oven and subcutaneous fat) Well, because I'm at something of a loose end at the moment. I should be getting on with the website, but I can't get access to the old computer all the stuff's on at the moment. And I can't really be bothered. Which isn't like me at all -- normally I am WORK ETHIC BOY! Chief work ethic person of the work ethic people. But not at the moment. I think we need a holiday.

But on the book front, I have things percolating away at the back of my head. Logan's fourth outing is beginning to take shape behind the curtained veils. Well, it's either that or my sinuses are backing up again. Which is entirely possible, after all, it's only been TWO BLOODY MONTHS since I had the operation. *sigh* Anyway, yes, so there are percolating, 'proop, plop, fsssssssssss' noises going in the old hairy subconscious for both Book 4 and something else as well, which I don't know what I'm going to do about. "Use it, or lose it!" as the Ideas Fairy says. They're not quite ready to start putting down on paper yet. I'll know the back of my head's done when the first line pops into my head like a piece of smouldering toast. Not the normal result of percolation, but that's what you get for employing cheap labour.

Where was I? Ah, right: Brownies. These came in a box with instructions and extra bits all the way from the good old US of A, courtesy of the lovely Tamara Siler Jones who thought I needed cheering up a wee while ago. And very nice they are too.

Now I suppose I should try and get something productive done. She Who Must is off volunteering at some horse-induced daftness today, leaving me and the monster cat to fend for ourselves. So technically it's a free day. But that just seems to make me more restless...

That's not the bloody soap!

Yes, I've spent the afternoon in the bath with Mr Allan Guthrie. OK, so he looks like a hamster on steroids, but the bloke sure can write. Just don't listen to any of that 'I've dropped the soap' stuff he comes out with...

Still knackered from Wednesday's 08:30 to 23:30 shift at the old steam-powered computer I grumbled my way into Aberdeen's Central Library at seven o'clock last night for 'An Audience With Stuart MacBride (God help us)'. Which actually went quite well. The BBC had pimped the event as being an opportunity to learn the tricks of the trade, so I was expecting a crowd of aspiring writers. Mistake number one.

"So, before we start: who here wants to be writer?" One hand goes up. "Only one?" another hand goes up. "OK, so two..." two more hands go up, but you have to look REEEEEEEEEEALLY close to see them. Hmm... So Stuart goes into 'general entertainment mode' which is code for 'rambling nonsense'. I tried to drop in as many serious writing tips as possible, including how to get an agent and when to drop your drawers for a publisher, but it wasn't enough. At the end of the evening, when everyone had been invited to fill in a form to rate the evening, there was one form that gave your bearded protagonist two 'Agree' ratings instead of 'Strongly Agree' on interest and relevance. *sigh*

Apparently there wasn't enough 'literary content', which is fair enough. Some people had gone along expecting a writing workshop and ended up with some bearded tit rabbiting on about all manner of irrelevant shite. But in the end I decided to slant the thing to the majority of attendees, rather than the advertised secret-fest. And the crowd were very good too -- very interactive (not that I gave them much of a choice) and question asking. And a bloody good evening was had by me. And everyone else... unless they were lying on their forms!

The event was supposed to last 40 minutes, but went on for about an hour and a half, so it can't have been that bad. I even saw someone taking notes! Aberdeen Libraries did me proud, and so did everyone who attended (except for Mr/Mrs 'Agree' -- damn their eyes!). I have to admit that the more of these things I do, the more I enjoy them and the more relaxed I get. In the end I'm going to just turn up in my jammies and dressing gown, scuff about for a while in my slippers speaking shite, and scuffle off again. Like Howard Hughes, only much poorer and with less naked girlies.

Well, no naked girlies. My wife disproves of such things unless they do the ironing, dusting and other household chores. Which seems fair enough to me.

a hamster on steroids

Allan Guthrie

Anyway, back to me and Allan 'that better be your toe' Guthrie in the bath: TWO WAY SPLIT. Brilliant novel. Sharp dialogue, excellent pacing, engaging characters, fucking good book. Like CRIME AND PUNISHMENT only GOOD! Go out, buy it, and be impressed. I've got his new book sitting in my in-box, waiting for me to blurb the thing, and I'm really looking forward to it now.

Ah yes, it's a good time to be alive and Scottish in the world of crime fiction... Mind you, any time is a good time to be alive. Being dead is not a good time, so enjoy it while you can. Pretend to be Scottish if you like, it helps ;}#

Like unto death

This morning I look a bit like Death's little brother, the one who's been a bit poorly and doesn't get out as much. White face, dark circles round the sunken eyes. If it wasn't for the jaunty beard I could pass for a Goth.

I love Goths, don't you? Course you do, who couldn't love Goths: they're the whacky ninjas of the clown world. It's a great public service they do, hauling their suicidally depressed arses out of bed each morning to rummage through their WARDROBE OF DARKNESS to find something nice and black to wear, slap on a wodge of white face paint and some black eyeliner, just to brighten up everyone else's day. I can't help but smile when I see them in the street, they cheer me up no end.

You never see an old Goth though, do you? Never see a middle-aged bank manager talking to his staff, dressed up in a flouncy white shirt, skin-tight black jeans, pointy boots and a white makeup... "Yes, Mrs Jones, I think you should adjust the fiscal period to reflect the tax year, and do you have any black lipstick I can borrow, mine's all smudged."

I'd love to be a fly on the wall for that Road to Damascara moment, when they look in the mirror, pull on the whole black and white ensemble, be-ring their fingers with skulls, apply the white ghost paint, then lovingly draw in the panda eyes -- with perhaps a touch of artistic smearing to make it look like they've been crying -- step back, examine their reflection and say:"Dear Jesus - I look like a vampire mime artist... What the HELL was I thinking!" Then change forever into jeans and a jaunty-coloured polo shirt. Probably going on to study accountancy, or quantity surveying. Something like that anyway. (actually, according to Wikipedia, Goths are more likely to grow up to be 'doctors, lawyers or architects', but I like my image better)

I suppose the modern equivalent (though those cheeky Goth chaps and chapesses are still around and pretty virulent if you read their posts in the Urban Dictionry) are the new wave of Green Day-style punks. Or Emos as they seem to be called. Which sounds a bit too much like Elmo for my liking. In my day punks came with a sense of impending violence and "What the fuck you lookin' at?" Elmo's more of a "Tickle me!" kind of guy. Ah yes, we live in strange times.

Anyway, this post is dedicated to the Goths of the world:
keep livin' the dream, you zany hipsters!

The VAT Man Cometh

And the VAT Man taketh away. Well not this time he doesn’t, because this time the devious sinister bastard actually owes me money Bwahahaha! Though that will probably change as soon as he sees it. *sigh*

Normally I’ll reward myself for doing the accounting with a big glass (or seven) of wine – one needs to be anaesthetised after all that – but with the antibiotics it’s not going to happen. Another *sigh*

So instead I have to finish up the thing I’m doing (and have been since Monday morning) and have a think about tomorrow’s library fest. Or I’ll just go sleep. Mmm, sleep…

Foetal tattoos naïve!

A fat bloke in the hand*

It's just after three in the morning, the bleary green lights on the alarm clock radio shining out into the darkened bedroom as Stuart slouches through to the toilet. Having a bit of a scratch. He stifles a yawn, does his sinful business, washes his hands, clicks off the light and turns to find a fat, middle-aged man leaning back against the wall, by the medicine cabinet, illuminated by a soft golden glow.

The newcomer is balding, his nose swollen and red, a string vest stretched by a beer gut of immense proportions, wee stubby, bandy legs, tiny feet, and a set of gossamer wings that ruffle the cobwebs round the light fitting.

Stuart: Oh God, not you again.

Ideas Fairy: Hey, you think I wanna hang about your bathroom in the middle of the friggin night? You think this is my idea of a good fuckin' time? You been ignoring my memos.

Stuart: Yeah, well, I've got three more Logan books to write before I can--

Ideas Fairy: (lighting up a hand-rolled cigarette) Look, this is quality stuff here -- dismembered corpses, flesh eating, cheerleaders in skimpy costumes, people having sex with dead bodies... eh? Eh?

There's a sudden whiff of brimstone and whelks and John Rickards appears, dressed in a black Armani jacket, rubbing his little goatee beard with manic glee.

Stuart's Bad Angel: (looking hopeful) Did someone say necrophilia?

Stuart: (burying head in hands) Oh God...

Ideas Fairy: Look, you want these ideas or not? I'm on a schedule here, got to go speak to some guy in Wales about financial restructuring in the Rhonda Valley.

Stuart's Bad Angel: I'll take them!

Ideas Fairy: You gotta be shittin' me... I'm not allowed anywhere near you since that Hardboiled Jesus thing you pulled. They nearly clipped my Goddamned wings!

There's a delicate sound of crystal goblets ringing, and a figure clothed in shimmering white appears peering suspiciously into a tub of Müller Light. She looks remarkably like Doris Day, only after a three month pie-eating binge.

Stuart's Good Angel: Why are there pubic hairs in the yoghurt? (looks up and sees Bad Angel standing there) Never mind, I can guess.

Ideas Fairy: Look, you want them or not?

Stuart: I can't I've got three Logan books to write. HarperCollins want--

Stuart's Bad Angel: Fuck 'em! Get a cool domain name and a fancy new blog and post the whole fucking thing online. It's what I'd do.

Stuart's Good Angel: You leave him alone! He has commitments. (sounding proud and righteous)

Stuart's Bad Angel: Shut the fuck up, fatty. Come on, you can--

Stuart's Good Angel: Don't you tell me to shut up, mollusc boy! And put some pants on!

Ideas Fairy: (raising his voice to be heard over the bickering) Look, I gotta be in Wales in ten, OK? Guy's gonna take a midnight dump and I need to be there to jam the idea in his ear before he wipes.

Stuart's Good Angel slaps the Bad One as he tries to cop a feel. Violence follows.

Stuart: Can you not just come back later? Like next week?

Ideas Fairy: No can do, you know how it works -- use 'em or loose 'em.

Stuart: (sighs) OK, OK, let's have them then. And wash your hands first this time.

Ideas Fairy: Fair enoughski. (rummages around in a tatty handkerchief, coming up with sticky clumps of inspiration to ram in Stuart's lug-holes as the fight on the bathroom floor finally comes to a puffing halt)

Stuart's Bad Angel: (spitting out a mouthful of feathers -- he has the start of a black eye) That was fun! Anyone want a hit of Absinthe?

Stuart's Good Angel: (halo all crooked) Yea, go on then. I've got some chocolate biscuits round here somewhere, we could have a party!

Stuart's Bad Angel: Party!

Stuart: (muttering to himself as he leaves them to it) I'm going to have to stop eating cheese last thing before bed.

* idea and at least one character shamelessly ripped off from PBW's blog post yesterday, because I can't be arse thinking up something new. Er... no, it's a homage! Yes, that's it, a homage. Not plagiarism at all. *ahem*

And relax... sort of

Yes, that's my writering commitments done for just now. I'll hear back in a couple of weeks if Book 3 is a sack of festering weasels or not; the shorty for Holland is away and now all I've got to do is blurb a couple of books, give feedback on a manuscript and redesign the website. Piece of cake.

So how come I just want to go down to the shops and run round the freezer department hitting people over the head with bags of frozen peas?

Of course, what I should probably be doing is preparing for Thursday at 19:00, Aberdeen Central Library where the unwitting masses (well, anyone who turns up anyway) will be subjected to 40 minutes of unmitigated, uncensored, unadulterated, undulating me! According to the BBC I'll be 'letting people in on the tricks of the trade...' I will? Have to think some up then. Possibly involving conjugating the verb 'beard'?

But if I can get my sweaty -- yet manageably soft -- hands on a whiteboard I think we'll plot out a novel. Hopefully not one starring a hairdresser who solves crimes this time. Suppose it'll all depend on whether or not there are any performance poets in the audience.

And the worst bit, the very, very, very worst bit, is that I'll be on the antibiotic bastard pills from hell until Friday morning. So I can't even go for a pint afterwards. And yes, I know penicillin is a wonder of the modern-ish world and I shouldn't complain, after all would I rather be dead? Or have people running about with that fancy big-city syphilis? No.

So thank you Mr Flemming et all, but could you have maybe made it a bit less side-effecty? Sans headaches, nausea and dizziness? Not being able to drink is bad enough without being subjected to a full-time, dear Jesus, thump and lump hangover!

So let that be a lesson to you.

Phew, a whole post and not a single mention of the Eurovision Song Contest. Well, until that one.

I should have had money on it

Ha, ha! Eurovison will never be the same again! Thank Christ. Lordi romped home last night (obviously if it wasn't for my bearded endorsement they'd never have won, but I'm still waiting for that 'thank you' phone call from their lead monster). Nine to one the bookies were offering yesterday, but did I take them up on it? Nooooo. Because She Who Must Have Every Key In The House was off with... well, every key in the house (clue's in the name) so Mr Stuart here was stuck in Casa MacBride. *sigh* No large piles of free money for me.

How does it feel to be in the Eurovision Song Contest?

"You know, we are meat eaters in a vegetarian café,"

(I wonder if they nibbled on any of the other acts in the green room.)

Still, the important thing is that the mighty sons (and daughter) of Finland rocked to victory over the usual bland nonsense that always fills the Eurovision song contest. Yes the singing might have been a bit guttural, but at least it was in tune, which is more than could be said for some of the acts poncing around the stage with fixed smiles. Seriously, a good few of them were bloody dreadful: you could have ironed on their voices they were so flat. Painful... and yet at the same time, it wouldn't be the same if everyone could actually sing. But I do feel sorry for the poor sods, stood up there dressed in white (which appears to be the new black, again) singing off key. Especially as the rest of Europe seems to take the whole competition so seriously.

And no one went home with null point for a change, not even the freaky-looking scary bloke from Malta.

In fact the only really disappointing performance of the night was Terry Wogan. I think someone hid all the alcohol, or told him he had to behave this year, because he barely said a word throughout the thing. Shame, we always liked the part where he took the piss out of the whole thing the best. Which used to be the bit between the third song -- when a bottle of gin and another of whiskey arrived -- and the end. In-between, nothing but piss-taking. This year he was nice to pretty much everyone. *again sigh*

Still the whole things remained cheesier than a warehouse full of gorgonzola, and Lordi WON! What more could we ask for?

Fingers crossed next year it's going to be wall-to-wall heavy metal and people in silly costumes!

Like Clive Barker doing the Wombles*

Yes, I'm not ashamed to admit that I actually watched the semi-final of the Eurovision Song Contest last night... Well, no, I am kinda ashamed, but you know, I watched it so you didn't have to, flicking over from An Audience With Victoria Wood when the adverts were on, and back again. And all to behold the majesty that is Lordi -- the proud sons (and daughter) of Finland, who dress up like monsters and play early eighties heavy metal. And to think, if Googling Brother hadn't left that comment yesterday I never would have known.

I'd take my hat off to the people of Finland, if I hadn't lost it in a pub years ago. It's genius! Who else would have thought of electing a bunch of heavy-metal-ists in full OTT Hellraiser-style costumes to represent their country in a cheesy, plinkity-plonkity pop competition? GENIUS! If I could be arsed to phone up and vote, I'd be voting for them!

Call me cynical, but I bet they're one of the few acts in the whole bloody competition who can actually play their own instruments, instead of miming along with vapid fixed grins. No fixed grins for the Finnish entry, they're too busy trying to look scary in their eleven-inch platform heels and full horror makeup. Hurrah for Lordi!

Go, proud sons (and daughter) of Finland, Halfhead salutes you!

* Actually, that sounds quite rude.

Euro-cheese-ovision

Ah yes, it's that time of year again, when the mighty nations of Europe -- open brackets, cough, cough, close brackets -- and some other countries who like to pretend to be European so they can get in on the act, do battle on the noble field that is the Eurovision Song Contest. Or 'vote for the country closest to yours no matter how crap their song is' as it's also know. Hurrah!

Last year She Who Must and I went to Googling Brother and SIL Kim's place for fondue and sarcasm, which was fun. We divvied up the countries and rooted for whatever dreadful noise they made when their turn came. More than once was heard the cry, "Sing, proud sons of Norway!" Ah yes. But this year it'll be different. This year the Googler and family are busy, so it's just me and the Creature From Darkest Fife, and I don't know if we'll bother this time. If you can't make fun of the thing, why watch it?

For those reading from foreign shores, the Eurovision involves 39 countries. Each one sings a song that sounds as if it's been written by a chicken suffering from dementia, then there's a big vote at the end and whoever has the most mates gets to host the thing the next year. The Irish used to win it all the time, till they figured out it was costing them a fortune and let someone else foot the bill instead.

Now it has to be said that to me, and this is just me speaking, right? Just my opinion. But to me, all the songs are sodding appalling. Not just bad, but so dire they're funny. And the performances are usually so far over the top 'funny' becomes 'hilarious', but musically: awful. And this year I think the UK is going to be up there with the best of them. We won't win (because, a: how uncool would that be? And b: everyone still hates the UK for the whole USA/Iraq thing), but our song is every bit as crap as anything the rest of Europe (and associated regions) can muster.

Oh yes, Daz Sampson's 'Teenage Life' isn't just bad, it's eye-wateringly, toe-curlingly, jaw-droppingly, rectal-leakingly, atrocious. Think women pretending to be little children singing in nasty, slightly off-key voices while some idiot raps over the top. Latvia doesn't stand a chance! Our crapness knows no bounds! The UK song gets voted for every year by the great British public, and I think this year they've decided that to be in with a real chance of winning, we have to have a song every bit as turdulent as the other entries. And so we've got 'Teenage Life'.

The best bit, the bit that makes me wonder if Daz Sampson's taking the piss or not is this quote from the BBC Eurovision website, where they ask him about the practice of countries voting for their mates, rather than the best song:

What's your take on the so-called political voting?
Well you blame political voting but we haven't entered anything quality since '97! That's why we've done so bad. You can't send crap and expect to win just because you're Britain. It's time for a change. It's time for the People's Champion - and that's me.

Ha! Hahahahahahahahahaaaa!

The big downside is that as I'm back on the antibiotics I'd have to watch the thing sober. And I don't know if I can face that.

No PIs please, we're British!

I don't know why, but a lot of the ideas I think up appear in the dead of night, just as I'm trying to get to sleep. This is a pain in the arse, because if it's a really good idea I end up with the little rusty cogs of my brain going fifteen to the dozen and making irritating squeaking noises accompanied by the smell of burning dust. No sleep for Mr. Stuart. Worse yet, the ideas I'm convinced are super special, which I scribble down on the pad I keep by the bed and wake up to find are a load of old shite. Or unintelligible. But the worst of all are the ones that seem perfect, but are gone by morning, leaving nothing behind but the certainty that whatever it is that I've forgotten, it was the best thing I've ever though up.

Not today though, today I decided to have a long lie, drifting in and out of the waking world for a couple of hours, taking this short story thing with me. The new one's nowhere near as violent and disturbed, but I think it works better. Plus it features a Private Investigator, which is a first for me. My novels tend to be about police or government investigators, and looking back at them, my short stories tend to focus on the people committing the crimes rather than solving them (well, not all of them, but of the twelve I wrote for Christmas I think only one that has a policeman as the central character). I've never written a PI story before.

The funny thing is, that even though I'm setting it in Oldcastle -- because I like to play there from time to time -- when I'm writing it I can hear American voices in my head. Not the usual ones that tell me to burn things and devour the flesh of all who would oppose me, but in the narration. I'm having to make a conscious effort not to put Americanisms into the text. And that's when I realise I've never read a British-set PI novel. I've read some of Bad Monkey Rickard's books, but they're all set I the US, so they don't count for the sake of this argument, and I've read Dashel Hammet, but no UK ones. Come to think of it, I don't think I've even seen a film with a British Private eye in it. The closest I can dredge from my memory is the series of Shoestring I used to watch when I was little.

So I suppose it's no surprise my PI story is coming out a bit American-ish to my ears. Have to go through the thing when it's finished and make sure there's plenty of 'Jobbies' and 'Wheeching' and people getting a swift knee in the sporran. Maybe if I just have someone go 'Hoots mon!' every now and then I'll get away with it?

Mr Head, him no working

Went into town today for what was supposed to be my last ever sinus scraping. Oh dear, sweet, biscuit-eating Christ, I so wanted it to be the last one. But it's not. After a prolonged rummage about in my sinuses with what felt like a section of scaffolding pole, the surgeon has decreed one more that my experience has been unfortunate, but atypical, and that everything should be better in about a month. ish. Month and a half tops. He even smiled as he said it.

So that's another four weeks to go of feeling like someone's rammed flaming marshmallows up my nose and into my brain. Hurrah! Plus I'm back on the antibiotics as soon as I can safely get to a chemist -- which will be tomorrow -- so it's going to be a long, bleak fortnight. *sigh*

On the up side, now that Book Number The Third is in with the spoon-weilding mercenary Amazons of HarperCollins I've got a wee while to kill before I have to do any actual work. So plenty of time to glodge about the place, whinging and recovering.

Well, except for this bloody short story and the two blurbs I promised I'd write. The shorty is... well, I've still got a couple of days to do it in, but... Not sure. I get the feeling I'll end up ditching the one I'm working on (when it's finished) and doing something else instead. Maybe I should just quit while I'm behind and scrap it now? But I hate giving up on a story. I did that to a whole novel last year: TSA died in the bowels of the uber edit, and with another three Logan McRae books in the contractual pipeline it's likely to stay dead. By the time I'm in a position to actually write something else -- assuming I've not been drummed out of the write-ists club and banned from ever besmirching the field of crime fiction ever again -- there's bound to be loads more stories I want to tell. So dead it will remain, dead and buried under a pile of dusty cat hair and old socks.

Gone and never called me mother.

Plus my desk hasn't been tidied in months and looks like an explosion in a landfill site. Only without all the dead rats and used condoms. Well, maybe a couple of dead rats, but I was hungry, damn it! Maybe I should just go tidy that instead?

Not so Groovy

Decided to reward myself with a day off yesterday. Well, it's not every day you get to finish a book (unless you're PBW). So I chilled out on the beach with a couple of cold ones, a barbecue and some bikini babes... Did I heckers like: I spent most of the bloody day forking bloody great weeds out of the bloody tattie patch. Bloody dockens the size of bloody trees. Bloody, forking weeds! So although I spent all day digging my tattie patch, it was not in a 1970's flared-jeans, sideburns kind of way. Not groovy at all.

But in-between the nettle-stung fingers, grit down the back of the neck, worms in the socks and building up a dose of righteous backache, I did have some rumination time for that short story I have to hand in next week. I've come up with a lovely clean way to kill someone too. Nice and sanitary, if a bit... 'screamy'. So I have title, opening line and an ending now. And not bloody clue what happens in the middle.

But today I get to shovel mounds of mouldy old horse shit (God, do I live a hedonistic, rock-and-roll lifestyle, or what?) hefting it from where the Boy Rat is stabled to the back garden, so I can make the rear of my house smell like a horse toilet. Hurrah! She Who Must insists that horse dung is natural and, as they don't eat meat, doesn't smell bad. I maintain that it doesn't matter if horses are vegetarian or not: if it's come out of something's backside, it's still jobbies.

So that's my weekend. Fun eh?

Back to the writing on Monday, I think. It's less smelly.

Is Finish!

Yes, book three is done. Well, the first draft anyway. Hurrah -- HarperCollins won't have to break my knees after all! Finished it today in the car park round the back of my wife's work, sitting in the car, in the rain. Perfect setting for the last scene too, after being up till two this morning finishing off the last of the line edits. Two in the morning... groan...

You want a preview? Well, the first word is 'SEX' and the last one is 'blood'. And there are one hundred and fifty three thousand, five hundred and eighty nine words in-between.

Yup, you heard right: the thing comes in at 153,591 handcrafted words of organically-reared, free-range goodness. It sounds like a lot, but I'll probably be in with a chainsaw when I go into my usual editing frenzy. Yes, my editors work with scalpels and lasers, I use dynamite. The version of DYING LIGHT that got printed is 30,000 words smaller than the first draft, and all because I went mental with the red pen. 30,000 -- that's about half the size of your average novel -- and I threw all those lovely words on the cutting room floor, then urinated on them. And set fire to them (which wasn't easy as they were all soggy with pee and made a terrible smell: we had to have the windows open for weeks afterwards) and buried the ashes in the bumhole of a startled-looking badger. At least he looked pretty startled by the time we'd finished.

Maybe I should have a sweepy for this book? Closest person to the final word count wins something cheesy (not a sausage though, they can be devils to post and are likely to be small green and wizened by the time they arrive)? What do you think?

I thought Book Three was going to be shorter, but the story just took that many words to tell. On the first draft anyway. Which I think is bloody weird -- how come the voices in my head can't remember how to programme the VCR, but they can make up just enough stuff to bring the book in at contractual length? How? Madness I tells ya, MADNESS! It's not like at any point I've sat down and said, "Well, this bit will take about 20K, and that bit will take 60K, so if I add in another subplot... oh, call it 15K and then..."

Anyway, the next three are supposed to be 120K each, so it'll be interesting to see if 150K is just my natural story length, or of those naughty voices will shift gears and go for that instead.

But for now the book is done. I shall send it off to Agent Phil (have sideburns, will boogie) and JamesO tonight*, and send it on to the lovely, but scary spoon-wielding, ladies of HarperCollins on Monday. Exactly two weeks late. Bad write-ist, naughty!

Tonight it's celebrations: fizzy wine, kitchen dancing, and something special for tea. And tomorrow I get to dig the tattie patch in the pouring rain. Lucky me!

* I should point out that I'm not expecting either of these fine fellows to read and comment on the story by Monday, that's just the way these thing are supposed to work. Normally I'd wait to hear back from them before submitting the book to HC, but needs must when you're over your deadline and all that.

Sort of, but not really...

I've got one more chapter to write and NDC (or Broken Skin to give the thing its approved title) will be done. Well, the first draft of it anyway. But first I must fiddle. I don't know if it's a obsessive writery superstitious thing, or not, but I like to finish a draft when I put the final full stop at the end of the last chapter. I don't want to type that final dot and then go back to fiddle with things, like write new scenes or tweak the ones I've already got. I like that sucker to be finished. Full stop. Period.

So yesterday and today I are been mostly going back to mess with a couple of things in the darkest bowels of the book, rummage about in its viscera before I start writing the last chapter. But the end is in sight! I can see it! Can you see it? Look real hard and squint a bit... there, to the left -- that's it! Hurrah!

Which is nice.

OK, so I've got some line-edit stuff to get through (which is what happens if you ask your publishers to look at the thing before it's finished) which will mostly be fighting the battle of 'like' versus 'as if', before I can get to the last chapter, but it's so close I can taste it. And it tastes of chips and Irn-Bru.

Then when it is finished there will be the traditional printing out of the thing, and popping the cork on a bottle of reasonably-priced Australian sparkling wine. Traditions have to be maintained after all.

Right, come here you nasty little line-edity buggers, I've got something sharp and pointy for you!

Freaks! Everywhere you look: FREAKS!!!

You can tell it's summer when the tinfoil-hat brigade start coming out in droves. I think the institutions need a bit of a breather from time to time, so when it's sunny all the inmates go 'Care In The Community' and the staff have a barbecue and sink some cold beers. It's the only explanation I can come up with for the sudden upsurge in weirdoes.

Like this one
tee hee) OK, OK, I'm joking. A bit. *ahem* No it's Mr Hatadi, he of the noirish stare, pictured here innocently lurking in the Pitt Street bookshop (Sydney) with a copy of some bearded tit's book stuck to his face. And let that be a lesson for you all: don't read crime fiction and play with superglue! At least, I think that's why the pages are all stuck together... shudder...

Mind you, I can see another one of those bloody 'If you like Ian Rankin, etc.' stickers on it, so I can assume the RRFFF will be out in force once more with their pointy sticks and beady little eyes.

In more traditional freakage, Agent Phil (small and hairy: like a vole in a suit, only more... feral) has been getting them too. The following conversation has been lovingly transcribed from an unsolicited telephone call he got on Monday:

Caller (bellowing throughout): `Yeah, hello?
Agent Phil: Hello, can I help you?
C: (to a third party) What's his name again?
Third Party: Mark Hayward.
C: Yeah, hello, hello, is that Mark?
AP: No, Mark has left, can I help?
C: Yeah, do you poetry.
AP: No.
C: Well, it says in the book you do.
AP: No, it says in the book no poetry or plays.
C: Do you do song lyrics, then?
AP: No. I am sorry we can't help you.
C: Well, fuck you, then. CLICK

Isn't that special? What a lovely person. I'm guessing the poetry they're trying to flog isn't of the 'moon in June' variety. Wonder if they're PERFORMANCE POETS! Saving the world one simile and metaphor at a time. Wearing their underpants outside their trousers, so everyone can see the skid marks.

Anyone else suffering from the 'differently thinking'?

Would you like to see my sausage?

You would, wouldn't you, because you're dirty! Yes, it's a cheap trick to get attention, but what the hell. This weekend I did make sausages! By which I don't mean I bought some sausages and cooked them, no, I made them. Not on my own, I did have adult supervision, but sausages were made and I was there, helming the ship, like Captain Ahab, only making sausages instead of hunting the white whale. Which probably would have made for a boring book, but a happier time for Ahab's crew.

"But how?" You cry, tearing at your hair in incomprehension, "How?" Well, calm down and I'll tell you. Googling Brother picked up a wee hand-cranked, plastic mincer / pasta making thingie and brought it out to Casa MacBride: sausages for to make. It comes with a sort of funnel thing and if you speak nicely to your butcher he'll give you pig intestines to use as skins. Then all you need to do is mince your meat (not it a rude way) add your herbs and spices, then fill your pig innards. Couldn't be easier.

And they ended up looking like proper sausages too -- not like hand-made lumpy things. Tasted good too.

The best ones were the Pork, Leek and Cheese Sausages ala mode d' ici*. We'll be making those again, oh Lordy yes! Tastier than a tasty thing they were, but slightly less exotic than the steaks we had on the barbecue: it's a rusty old brick and metal thing that came with the house and my mother got the fire going with charcoal and some dry bits of stuff I dug out the garden ages ago. So our ribeyes were broccoli-smoked. It's a bit like oak-smoked only it doesn't come from a tree. Though I suppose if you were very small and had no concept of what broccoli actually looked like, then you might be convinced you'd stumbled into a wee green forest.

But you'd have to be pretty daft.

* I was going to post the recipe, but as I'm the only one who knows it, I can make my fortune by keeping it secret! Bwahahaha! I'll be like Colonel Sanders, and rich beyond the dreams of avarice! Soon there will be a Casa MacBride Sausage Restaurant on every street corner. I can see it now, the whole world worshiping my special cheesy sausage!

Sunday Times Wreaks Bearded Madness!

OK, so that's a slight exaggeration. Actually, it's a complete sodding lie, but I thought it'd be catchier than 'Sunday Times Runs Article On Bearded Idiot (But Only In Scotland)'. Yup, if you bought a copy of the Scottish Sunday Times this morning and can wrestle your way though the small rainforest's worth of supplements and magazines, you'll find an interview / article with me in the 'Ecosse' section. There's even a photo of me resting on some poor sod's grave -- one of those old fashioned ones where the person who erected the headstone gets top billing and the poor deceased has to take second place with a smaller typeface.

Not a bad article, even though one does need a Sherpa, compass and both hands to find it -- I bought the paper this morning and went in search of ME! It's the newsprint equivalent of ego-surfing and tried the book section, the Scottish paper bit and eventually started trolling through the supplements, looking for my bearded face -- but one bit makes my blood boil! No, it's not the tiny spoiler, it's the bit that goes:

Writing has come relatively late in life for MacBride, although how late is hard to say... Early Forties is a best guess.

Cheeky bastard! Cheeky, rotten stinker who stinks and is made of stink and when he moves stink comes out! Early forties my arse: I've been ill! I'm not a day over (harrumphing coughing noises)! Doesn't he know I celebrated a 31st birthday last year?

Still, it's nice to get the coverage, and aside from that woeful, libellous misuse of journalistic privilege (Early Forties!), it's a good article. And the photo doesn't make me look like a horses arse either. Which is a nice change.

The other bit, which is more surreal than anything else is their bestseller list. Not the one in the paper this week -- that one covers the four weeks ending 22 April 2006 -- but the one for the last week in April they email out to all the publishers, letting them know whom is kicking who's arse. In that one I'm number eight on the Hardback Fiction list. Ah yes, Sunday Times Bestseller Boy, that's me: you may kiss the hem of my robe, as soon as I go out and buy one. And if it wasn't for that pesky Doctor Who bloke, I'd be number FIVE (there are three of them above me)! And by an extension of that same logic if it wasn't for Robert Goddard, Marian Keyes, Jodi Picoult, and some Patterson bloke I've never heard of, I'd be number one! Then all would fear me and great would be my REIGN OF TERROR!

And while I'm on the big train, speeding away from reality town, I'd like an open topped sports car, a nose that works again, and a big bag of jelly babies. And maybe some dancing girls. I have simple tastes.

Where was I? Yes, so, there you go. By the time the list gets printed next Sunday something will have changed and I'll have been knocked off the charts by something else, but for one brief shining moment I can bask in the light of my own beardy ego. Bwahahahahahaha!

Just don't tell HarperCollins I'm basking, OK? I'm already one week late with book three. To the grindstone!

Meantime, in Greenwich...*

I must be going up in the world: not only am I sharing an event with star of stage, page and screen, M. Billingham Esq. I've also got a car to whisk me from Heathrow to the HarperCollins offices in Hammersmith, instead of just taking the tube like a normal person. And not just any car, no, according to the guy driving it, it's a VIP car! I ask him what that means and he shrugs, he has no idea. He asked the dispatcher when they gave him the job and they said, 'You smile at them and hold the door open and stuff.' Which he normally does anyway. I secretly determine to measure the guy's smile at random intervals throughout the trip into town, just make sure HC aren't getting short-changed.

My VIP car is a Mercedes with dodgy air-conditioning, so we're greasy spots by the time we get to HarperCollins' headquarters. My driver's smile is on average two centimetres wider than the norm -- even if he does try to convince me to have babies all the way in from the airport (with my wife, not with him: that would be freaky, but if we managed it we'd be rich beyond the wildest dreams of avarice!) -- so I feel safe enough to give him a favourable review if asked. I shan't have him stripped of his badge of office and thrown into a barrel of rabid hamsters in a VIP hissy-fit!

Fiona, who usually looks after me when I'm down here is off sick, so today I'll be shepherdessed round town by Kelly, who's also from the publicity department. I wonder if she knows I'm a VIP? I could get free crisps! She's in her early twenties, cheerful, nice, and has a brain like the sink trap in a dishwasher -- all the little bits of information that would normally get washed away from my brain, get stuck in hers. She's a font of trivia and interesting snippets, shame she's got a face like a bag of old spanners. Well, that's what I'm going to tell She Who Must anyway (just between you and me she's very, very pretty in a wholesome Doris Day sort of way, complete with Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz-style dress).

First stop: One Word Radio for an interview, two readings, and some general chat. I think I must be getting a bit more used to this kind of thing, because I actually enjoy myself. Doesn't mean I'm any good, just means I'm less worried about screwing up.

Second Stop: Broadcasting House -- home of the venerable BBC -- where I'm supposed to be live on air at 14:00. Which is going to be interesting as we're still standing in reception at five past waiting for someone to escort us up to the warren of tiny little radio studios they keep for the BBC regional stations. Don't they know I'm a VIP? I've been upgraded from the mobile-sauna Mercedes to an air-conditioned Jaguar. I must be oozing with very importantness by now, but there's still no sign of anyone to take Kelly and me to the studio... Maybe they have time-travelling lifts here, like in Doctor Who? OK: I know he has a police telephone box and not a lift, but it's the same principle. About the same number of people urinate in both. By the time someone turns up to show us to the studio we're about ten minutes late, which is OK because there's no sign of anyone on the other end of the ISDN line till about quarter past. Another fun interview, and no reading to make a mess of either -- just as well on a live show. Then it's off to sign books!

100 first editions at Goldsboro Books with the Daniel and David who were training to be catholic priests, so do a great line in blasphemous swearing and tell the kind of stories about authors I could never repeat for fear of getting sued. Nice guys. Then we're whisked by chauffer-driven VIP Jaguar to Murder One for more signings, then off to Waterstones in Oxford Street for yet more squiggles and doodles. I should point out that these aren't the kind of signings where people line up and buy your book and say nice things about your beard, these are the kind of signings you do anonymously to give the bookshops something to put their 'Signed By The Author' stickers on. Given the option I'll usually buy a signed book over an unsigned one, so I know it works. Plus it means they can't be returned: Bwahahahahahaaaaaa!

By now it's getting late. Well, it's nearly five anyway and we're supposed to be back at HarperCollins -- eight miles away across London in rush-hour traffic -- in three minutes time to get another car to Greenwich. Hmm... should have borrowed one of those time-travelling lifts from the BBC. Plus I've not checked into the hotel yet. There being bugger all chance of getting to the hotel, then to Hammersmith and out to Greenwich for seven, Kelly makes an executive decision: bugger the plan, we're taking the underground. Which means there's time to eat great big wodges of fish at a little restaurant opposite the Ottakar's we'll be descending on for tonight's fun-fest. Mmm, fish...

There's something really bloody worrying about doing an event with Mr Billingham. One: he's a big-name, best-selling, internationally-famous author; while I'm a bearded idiot. Two: he's a stand-up comedian; I'm barely coherent at the best of times. Three: he's had a lot more practice at this than I have. And four: ninety percent of the crowd will be here to see him, not some Scottish bloke they've never heard of. Damn. But I have a secret weapon called Kelly. Not only does she have that dishwasher drain-cover mind, she's also a big fan of Marks. Huge fan. Used to watch him all the time on Maid Marian and Her Merry Men. When she was eight. Bwahahahahahahahaha! Cue Stuart making 'old' jokes at Mr Billingham's expense all night. Yes, it's a cheap shot, but I need all the edge I can get! Mark works the crowd like a pro... because he is one... and although most of the questions are directed Billinghamwards he punt a good few my way too. And so does the lovely Natasha Cooper, who's acting as our ringmaster tonight, so I'm never left sitting there like a spare fart for very long.

Now I have a confession to make: I've never been to an author event before. The closest I came to it was turning up to see Terry Pratchett when he was promoting one of his books years and years ago in Aberdeen. And even then there wasn't time for any of this Q&A stuff -- he just sat at a table and signed books for a long, LONG line of people. So it's very interesting, and educational, to watch Mark work, and he generously takes me with him too. For brief, shining moment we're a double act, though he's definitely Eric Morecombe to my Ernie Wise.

Afterwards a bunch of us go to a little tapas bar, where after a few beers Natasha asks why DYING LIGHT has so many arses in it. Arse, arse, arses all over the shop. No idea, is the puzzled response. I wasn't aware of being arse-tastic when I was writing it, but it probably has something to do with the editing process. I tend to write a goodly number of rude words in the first draft, then go through and start cutting them down. And given the choice between removing a 'fuck', 'bastard' or 'arse' the latter looks positively tame by comparison. I'm going to be paranoid about that now. I'll have to have an arse check for NDC -- now known as BROKEN SKIN -- and make sure things are slightly less bum-centric. Which will be hard given one of the plots is decidedly bottomular. Damn.

Ah well.

So all in all, a good time for Mr MacBride; an OK time for those kind souls who came and listened to us; and a slightly crap time for Mark, who got stiffed in the tapas bar when one of our party buggered off without paying. An no -- it wasn't me ;}#

Right -- if you're feeling masochistic, there will be MacBrideian news in Tomorrow's Sunday Times. Or there should be, you know how these things change. But I'll probably have some sort of ego-fuelled self-aggrandising post about it tomorrow.

* Oh, did you see what I did there? Did you see?

No Blogging

Not today anyway – I’m on a writing thing instead, and I'm late enough to make that a... you know... thing you do with words and stuff. Tomorrow I'll post some rambling nonsense (for a change) about my triumphant trouncing of Bounder Billingham at the Greenwich event of doom. Or maybe some pictures of random stuff instead. Or a poem about trousers.

Who can tell?

What I Did Learn On My First Year As A Write-ist

Well, today is officially publication day, and like last time it's going to pass by unmarked -- the book's been on sale for at least a week, the launch has been and gone, and now it's just me and the Kitten, trying to get number three finished and appease some wrathful editors. But on the plus side, Madame Grendel T Cat is very cuddly today, so that's uplifting in the spirit department. By which I don't mean going shoplifting in an off-licence.

Anyway, I said a wee while back that I'd post things what I did learn on my first year as a write-ist (see the cunning link with the title?) and here are mine pearls of questionable wisdom in no discernable order:

• Never have elective surgery a month before your deadline. Not even if the guy wielding the knife promises on his mother's left testicle that nothing ever goes wrong.
• Some reviewers will hate your book, some will love it, with others it'll be difficult to tell. But the people who come past and leave messages on your website or blog are the people who actually buy your books. Their opinions are the ones that really matter (ooh, how cheesy was that?).
• Publishers are all very, very nice people, but also very, very weird. Working as they do surrounded by other, similar, weirdoes, they may not know this. Try not to point it out too often, or they get paranoid.
• Crime writers are also very, very nice people (well, other than me, obviously), but the freak-quotient is usually unpredictable until after the second pint. Some may also smell of whelks (allegedly).
• Being a full-time, stay-at-home writer is one of the most difficult jobs I've ever done, but apparently it does make me less of a grumpy bastard.
• About a month after nasal surgery, your nose starts to give birth to horrific globs that look like dead mice. If you haven't actually been sticking dead mice up your nose this can come as something of a shock.
• There is nothing more strange (and pleasing in a secret 'tingly' way) than signing books for real people, who actually like what you write enough to come out and see you.
• There is nothing more freaky than having your photo taken for the papers (even if it's only coming out the back door of the courthouse with a blanket over your head).
• There is nothing more lovely than getting your hands on the first hardback copy of your first book (nothing you can do in public without getting arrested anyway).
• Editors know best.
• Find a good agent who can be a good friend too -- you won't regret it (Christ! More bloody CHEESE! Like a gorgonzola factory round here...)
• I can spell 'Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy' with a keyboard, but put a pen in my hand and I can't spell 'Susan'.
• I use the word, 'like' when my publishers want me to use, 'as if'. In any fight, they will usually win (but this is partly because one of them has been taught how to kill a man with a spoon by Berbers).
• People don't like it when you kill off children or animals in your books. So that was me buggered straight out of the gate with COLD GRANITE then ;}#
• If you ever get feedback through a circuitous route that your publishers wish you wouldn't deliver your books so early DO NOT LISTEN! And for God's sake don't hold off starting till later in the year. Finish the sodding thing early and stick it in a drawer for a couple of months. Your blood pressure, life and mental health will be a lot better for it.
• Unless you've been flipping burgers for a living, becoming a full time writer isn't likely to represent a pay rise. But it's a lot more fun and a lot less greasy.
• Just because the person interviewing you for the paper/website/magazine is recording everything you're saying, it doesn't mean you won't find something radically different appearing in the finished article. And the picture editor will usually pick whichever photo makes you look most like an arsehole to go along with it too.
• Your mum and dad will buy an embarrassingly large number of your books to give to all their friends, acquaintances, and anyone who stops at their house to ask directions or read the meter.
• Almost everyone I've met in publishing is brighter and better read than I am.
• Your Amazon sales ranking doesn't mean a bloody thing -- I've been 25th at times and I'm still nowhere near as rich as Dan Brown. Though I am much prettier.
• Seemingly normal people will tell you your book is great -- this is scary. Get over it. And for God's sake don't turn round and tell them it isn't! All you're doing is saying their opinion doesn't matter, or that their wrong. They've paid you a compliment, so be thankful and accept it gracefully. (And yeah, I know I still find this one difficult, but I'm working on it.) Plus they may be a nut-job, follow you home and cut off your toes.
  
• Deadlines can take all the fun out of life. Especially when they're bearing down on you like a bloody freight train, and you've been tied to the tracks by some moustachioed villain in a black cape and silly hat. You may or not be wearing voluminous petticoats -- it's up to you.

Anyone else want to share their pearls of wisdom?

Obituary

I am now, officially, the late Stuart MacBride. Deadline for book three is today and it's not finished. So as soon as Jane and Sarah get their hands on me I'm dead. I sent them a grovelling email apology this morning, so that might commute my sentence to a stiff spanking, but it's still not good. Bad Stuart!

This week I'll have to write like a ninja! Only without the black clothes, sneaking about in the shadows and killing people. Which won't be quite as easy as it sounds, seeing as I'm going to be in Greenwich on Wednesday for the event (spending the morning on the plane waiting for Heathrow to let us take off, lunchtime at One World Radio, and the afternoon signing stock in a few select bookshops), and I hope there will be a cry of 'TO THE PUB!' afterwards, or better yet, 'TO SOME SWANKY RESTAURANT WHERE EVERYONE WILL HAVE THE TOWER OF FISH!' Mmm, tower of fish...

Yeah, anyway, the gist is: not much writing time. Then on Thursday I think I've got the morning free, so that'll be for a hangover and/or writing, then drinkies and lunch with the lovelies at HarperCollins in Hammersmith. They'll pour me into a cab, or back onto the tube, and I'll snore all the way home on the plane.

So, as a prelude to tomorrows 'What I Did Learn On My First Year As A Write-ist' post, I'll share this nugget of beardy wisdom with you:

Never have elective surgery a month before your deadline. Not even if the guy wielding the knife promises on his mother's left testicle that nothing ever goes wrong.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go do some thinking. Unusual for me, but it can't be helped.