All Hallows' Eve

Something inside my head has gone 'click' and it's about bloody time too. It's been a while since the old subconscious has pulled its socks up and actually done some work on Book 4. Well, to be honest, it's never done any work on Book 4. Lazy subconscious brain thing. What do I pay it for?

I think the turning point came this weekend when I was able to stay in the middle of Aberdeen, rather than up in the back of beyond where She Who Must Be Kept Away From Civilised People and I live these days. And as the book's going to be set twixt Halloween and Bonfire Night now is the time to be rootin' about in town. Visiting the housing estates with a video camera and a winning smile. And just the faintest whiff of egg.

There's something strangely inspiring about wandering round the place the book's going to be set, and finally the back of my head is stepping up and doing its job. I've got little fragments of dialogue popping in-between my ears. Tiny snippets of scenes. And I finally know what to do with the start of the damn thing too. Hurrah!

Of course, this means that I've got to start writing the book now. Probably just as well: I want to avoid the disastrous deadline rush I had this year with BROKEN SKIN. Still, as long as I avoid any of that nasty open nose surgery stuff, I'll be fine...




Doh!

I can see clearly now

Well the rain's not exactly 'gone', it's more lurking a bit further south, ready to rush up the country like a ferret up a trouser-leg and bite the northeast of Scotland on its delicate unmentionables. That's why people should wear corduroy underpants, much better protection against pointy ferret teeth. I suppose you could try for leather pants, but that would be a bit kinky. As is encouraging small, easily excitable, carnivorous mammals to wheech up your trousers. But you know what I mean.

Anyway, following the weather-related fun of last week's storms and power cuts and sitting about in the kitchen, with the gas hob holding back the October ice-age and naught but flickering candles to read by, it's been a stunner today. Blue skies, shiny sun, warm breeze -- like a little slice of summer at the death of the year. Who would have thought it, just a day before Halloween and we're having a mini Aberdonian heat wave.

And do you know what else today is? It's exactly one week till I go back under the knife for more sinus surgery shenanigans.

Now part of me is a kind of excited at the prospect of finally getting it all over and done with. That this will fix the nasty sinus headache I've had since March, that it'll mean I can finally breathe again, like a normal person, without feeling like I'm trying to inhale half a pound of raw pork and burnt garlic sausages. That things will be all sorted out and little fluffy bunnies will dance around and sing. At least until Grendel: AKA THE KITTEN OF DOOM! -- gets her claws into them.

That said, most of my is more than a little bit concerned about having someone hack more chunks out of the inside of my head. Actually, that's a lie: most of me is bricking it. I'm dreading going back into hospital for another round of bleeding, pain and humiliation. The first time I went in was bad enough -- surfacing after the op to discover that there was only one temp nurse looking after the entire wing, when four of us poor buggers were fresh out of surgery that afternoon. So the unfortunate woman was left running about from room to room, trying to keep everyone under control and in their pos-operative beds, while we just wanted, you know... to get some tissues to soak up the blood so we didn't have to cough it up all over the bed. Fun and indeed games.

The second time I went in I woke up afterwards with my head packed with cotton wool, in a considerable amount of discomfort. OK, let's be honest and call it bastarding pain. Only no one was prepared to give me anything for it -- I mumbled at the duty doctor, only to be told that he'd come back in two hours and see if I was still in pain. Then, maybe he'd give me something. I wasn't best pleased, but bleeding all over the shop and not having eaten or slept for a week and a bit I wasn't up to mounting an armed resistance. And the 'not eating' thing meant I couldn't even go on a dirty protest. Bear in mind that this was a private hospital, and all paid for by INoGITCH's generous medical insurance.

All in all it was a pretty humiliating and horrific experience. So you can probably guess why I'm not really keen to go back. But this time SHE WHO MUST BE FEARED BY HOSPITAL ADMINISTRATORS THE WORLD OVER is going to be at my bedside when I wake up. I was all shy, and didn't want anyone there the last two times, but the next time I come round following a general anaesthetic I can feel safe in the knowledge that if I need something to bleed into, or a bucket of painkillers, there's going to be someone on my side who'll go out and kick someone else's arse for them till the required drugs materialise. Ah yes, sometimes it pays to marry a scary woman from Fife.

In other, non-nose-related news, I picked up my new glasses today, and the world is a much scarier place when you can see it in focus. Plus they make my head look funny. Not funny in a 'laughing with you' kind of way either.

Do - a deer, a female deer

Yes, let's start from the very beginning, because it's a lot less effort than tramping all they way along to the middle and starting there... Or is it? Well, yes, because you have to do all that tramping, but I think the view from over there is much nicer than the one over here. And before you say anything, yes: this does make perfect sense.

As you know, I've been thinking a lot about beginnings, because I'm about to launch into that of my fourth book. Like a good little researchy write-ist I've been looking at a lot of other people's beginnings and when it comes to crime there seem to be a few 'classics'.

1. Open with a bit from the bad guy's perspective -- this is something I've used a lot myself: COLD GRANITE, DYING LIGHT, and now BROKEN SKIN. Yes, with the third book I gave the cliché what I hope is a hefty twist, but I don't think I can do it again for a while, or it's going to get repetitive.
2. Open from the victim's perspective -- not something I've done yet, possibly because I'm only an honorary lesbian, but again something that happens a lot in other people's books. Plus I worry that it can get a bit salacious, especially given what's going to happen to the poor bastards in Book 4.
3. Open on something innocuous -- not something you see a lot of, because we all know the necessity of grabbing readers by the gonads and not letting go.
4. Open with a chase, or some other contrived action sequence -- because it creates a sense of urgency and people like to be excited. Sometimes with a jar of peanut butter and a feather boa.
5. Open with the discovery of a body -- an old favourite and standby format for pretty much everyone. It was how DYING LIGHT was going to start, but I ended up putting in the first chapter about the fire instead.

I think my favourite opening of all times (steady vicar) is John Carpenter's THE THING. OK, so it's not a book, it's a film, but it's brilliant. A bunch of Norwegians trying to shoot a dog from a helicopter. No explanation, no preamble, nothing -- straight into the middle of the story. I would love to be able to write that well. To produce something that has people going, "What the fudgemonkeys?"* but still be strong enough to drag them along by the gonads. An opening that goes, "I'm telling you fuck all**, just read you bastards***, READ!"

Ah well, it's a dream, isn't it?

The trouble with using that as an example of the pinnacle of openings is that I'm now looking at the idea for the start of Book Number The Fourth in a less than favourable light. It's not as good as the start of The Thing.

And now I'm all depressed.

So, OK, what's your favourite start to a book / film / narrative thing? Is there anything left that's not been done to death, or should we just look on these things as the quaint conventions of our genre and get on with it? Whatever the hell our genre is...

* Because, obviously, my readers are far too polite to swear.
** Because, obviously, I'm nowhere near as clever, or highbrow as the people what do read my stuff.
*** and I mean that in a nice, cuddly way.

Me, me, me, me, me...

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 0 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

Well, it seems the internet isn't quite as dumb as it smells. Yes, for it can tell that I'm not in the USA right now*. Which is just as well, because if I'm in the Americas, who the hell is the bearded bloke living in my house, playing with my cat and sleeping with my wife?

But I'm pretty sure it's me, because he's got knackered sinuses and a whiteboard completely devoid of any sort of plan / map for book four. Poor sod.

A lot of people have been emailing (well, maybe as many as five) asking how my return to work has gone. To be honest, this week's been a bit of a pain in the bum, as instead of having my three days a week in one block, it's been Monday, Wednesday and I'll be back in on Friday again. So there's no real time to settle into anything at home. Next week it will be better.

Other than that, everyone's been really nice at INoGITCH, no one seems inclined to hold the whole buggering off to be a write-ist for a year thing against me. At least not that I've seen. Then again, they weren't inclined to invite me out to lunch either. Bastards.

Which brings up a really odd thing, something I hadn't considered before I actually got back. INoGITCH is putting a serious dent in my online social life. It's a bit 'conservative' when it comes to website access. I had a mate who used to work here, and he was given a serious talking to by HR for visiting a website called 'Furniture Porn' where they have hot, un-upholstered chair-on-chair action. He nearly got fired for that. So I'm looking at the list of blogs I visit on a daily basis and I'm thinking to myself, are any of these work appropriate?

You know John's out for a start; Tammy's usually pretty sweary free; James occasionally talks about people having sex in the woods, and sticking his finger up sheep's bottoms, so he's out; David has a go at the Current American Administration from time to time, so nope again; Sandra posts rude jokes... and so on, and so forth. And Hotmail's banned from the off. So no internet badinage for poor Stuart at work. Instead he has to... well... work.

And I suppose they are paying me for it, so it would be churlish to complain.

Anyone else having fun at work, or is it just me?

* Link shamelessly nicked from Duane Swierczynski

Good God man, these aren't the Dark Ages!

Well, in the run up to more 'fun with surgery', I've been looking at all they happy invasive things they're planning to perpetrate upon my unsuspecting noggin. The one I'm most not looking forward to is the bilateral functional endoscopic sinus surgery with right frontal sinus trephine. Which is a fancy way of saying they're going to hoik a disk of bone out of my skull with a drain-rod. Now isn't that what everyone looks forward to?

The best bit about it, is that if the procedure goes wrong (and we're not talking hugely wrong either, just a little bit wrong) then you end up with an internal puncture and all that lovely, salty fluid your brain floats in, drains out through your nose. Spwoooooooosh! My brain has enough difficulty operating at the best of times, without being in dry-dock. Mind you, I suppose I could have all the barnacles scraped off at the same time, so it wouldn't be a complete loss.

Still. Things and stuff and all that.

12 days to go...

Torchwouldn't

She Who Must Be Occasionally Forced To Watch Some Dreadful Shite On Television and I sat down and watched the first two episodes of DOCTOR WHO spin-off TORCHWOOD last night. And I think, 'Meh' pretty much sums it up.

I'm in a picky mood when it comes to openings at the moment, as I'm considering the start of BOOK 4 right now. And Torchwood didn't exactly do it for me. It tried very hard to be edgy and adult and clever, and didn't really manage either. The set-up was exactly the same as the start of the first new season of Dr Who: outsider sees something they're not supposed to, then is inexplicably drawn into the story through a series of BLOODY HUGE COINCIDENCES, and in the end are asked to 'join the team'. How often has the same device been used? I'm guessing more than once or twice.

Why the hell is it that these kinds of shows always have some completely inexperienced and clueless outsider being invited to join super top secret team out to save the world? OK, they did the same with Stargate and Dr Jackson, but at least he had an appreciable skill to bring to the thing: he spoke the language (something that the TV series conveniently forgot ASAP). Rose, the Doctor's assistant, could be said to be someone fun for the time-travelling dwarf to muck about with. Gwen in Torchwood is a PC. Who doesn't seem to have any clue about anything. No, she's there to remind the team of their 'humanity'. Oh, dear, sweet, hairy Jesus.

Yes it's got sex, and yes it's got 'adult themes', but ultimately it's tired and listless before it's even started. Hopefully it'll get better, because there's very little on the telly at the moment that's worth watching more than once. Not to mention all that reality TV shite that's not even worth watching the adverts for. Ruby Bloody Wax my hairy bum.

So I've been thinking about the start of series, to see if any actually work (to my overly-critical beard-addled brain) and I'm struggling. I did watch the pilot of PIE IN THE SKY a couple of months ago and remember thinking that it was a perfect example of how to set stuff up properly, without explaining every-bloody-thing. Even if it did deteriorate a bit towards the end.

And the worst example I can think of? SIN CITY. Bruce Willis's first scene in that film contains some of the crapest bits of exposition I've ever seen:

"You're draggin me down with you. I'm your partner. They can kill me too. I ain't putting up with that. I'm getting on the horn and calling for backup"

You call for backup. You call for backup and see if they can perform triage on the bastarding script.

I know that's not helping me get started on the book, but it'll probably get up a few people's noses, and I suppose that's something.

Tick, tick, tick, tick...

Yup -- it's now seven and an half hours (give or take) till I have to be back in my inhumane little cubicle at INoGITCH. And I seem to be the only one not subscribing to the 'Oh Bloody hell: why are you going back? Are you retarded or something?' camp. She Who Must Think Her Husband Is Missing Something Important Between The Ears has decided that I'm off my rocker. And she may well be right. OK, so she's from Fife, so that's not likely (statistically speaking), but there's always a first time.

To make matters worse, we went shopping for work clothes on Saturday. Markies -- fucking useless and full of shite, except for the 'Extra Value Suit' which seemed to be really well made, except for the trousers which looked like they were trying to crampon their way up the north crevice. If you know what I mean. John Lewis were more useless, only in a much funnier way. Every time I saw one of their price tags I laughed, and laughed, and laughed...

In the end it was a close run thing between suicide, murder and Slater's Men's Wear. And dear God forgive my non-manliness, but I bought a suit. And then another suit. And then some shirts. And two ties. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME? I've not bought a single stitch of clothing since the David Hasselhoff impersonator's outfit, eighteen months ago. Why on earth did I pick now to go mad?

On the bright side, I can probably use one of the suits to traumatise people at crime events. It's a linen-style thing and gives one the air of a bearded Michael Palin gone to seed. With no mates. And the faint whiff of despair.

The worst part about this shopping binge of DOOM is that the suits aren't going to be available till Monday lunchtime. So my newfound colleagues won't get the benefit till later in the week. Supposing any of them notice.

Of course, maybe my return to work will be heralded with trumpets and feted calves, but somehow I bloody doubt it. Would lunch be too much to ask for?

An sordid confession

There are those out there who will tell you that before you write about a character, you should know everything about them. This knowledge helps you decide how they would react to any given situation. It means you know what you're writing about. Well, I've written three Logan McRae novels now, and each of them features Detective Inspector Insch and his sweetie habit.

And you know what: I haven't got a clue what the man's first name is. Not a Scooby.

This never mattered before, because no one was in a position to use his first name in conversation. It never came up, so it wasn't important. DI Steel, on the other hand, was going to be called Robyn. Until I came to my senses and realised there was no way I'd get away with the terrible pun it would make for a police woman's name. But I was still bloody tempted. But she used her first name when talking to a suspect in the second book, so suddenly she became Roberta. Insch on the other hand...

Book Number The Fourth is going to have a lot to do with a case Insch was involved in when he first became a beat bobby, so people are going to use his first name. And I don't know what the hell it is. He's not a Brian, or a Stephen. Or a Frederic. Christopher doesn't sound right either, and I have a main character called John in the third book, so it can't be that.

I don't know why, but now that I have a good picture of what the man is like, I'm finding it difficult to get a name that actually fits. And my trusty CASSELL DICTIONARY OF FIRST NAMES is no help either. That way lies prevarication and much getting sod all done.

He's got to have a first name though, doesn't he? Anyone got any ideas? Does he seem like a Desmond to you?

Whipping up a SandStorm

The spare room at Casa MacBride has been refurbished with lots of lovely pine skirtings and wooden doors. Which is nice, especially as She Who Must Be Excused From All DIY Because She's A Tad On The Slapdash Side When It Comes To That Sort Of Thing's father did all the joiner work for us. In fact, he's done about 90% of the joinery stuff in the house with 10% being down to my bumbling attempts at assistance. With emphasis on the word 'ASS'.

What usually happens is that he does all the sawing and measuring and hammering and putting up. I go round afterwards filling in all the nail-holes and then sanding and varnishing. It's a crappy job, but someone has to do it. And it's for my benefit, so I can't really complain, can I?

OH YES I CAN!*

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce you to the technological delight that is: THE BLACK AND DECKER SANDSTORM!

Believe it or not, this is the second one of these I've had. The first one developed leprosy of the dust collector after a fortnight and was sent back to B&Q and (after some arguing over who would have to send the thing back to the manufacturer) I was issued with an identical replacement. Oh joy.

Now the idea behind this marvel of engineering is that it's got Velcro on the bottom of the sanding pad, and you can just rip off your used-up sheet of sandpaper and slap on a new one. Then there's the dust collector bag thing on the back, easily removable for cleaning! And the little pointy bit at the front so you can swap out the sandpaper where it gets worn down the most. Brilliant? Well designed? Simple? Effective? ... Crap.

The bloody thing vibrates, so that clever little dust collector thing shakes itself loose the whole time and falls off, spraying you with sawdust. The Velcro sandpaper pads you need to use cost a fortune and don't last very long. The clever little pointy bit at the front falls off too. And when it's not falling off, the Velcro hooks are getting all flattened and unsticky, so the pointy bits of sandpaper fly off at inappropriate moments. Like when you're actually trying to sand things.

And, if you're really, really lucky... they explode. Yup, that's what mine did this morning: committed suicide with a loud bang and flying plastic shrapnel. Fun! Bloody thing had a good go at taking the end of my pinky off when it went, but I was too fast for it! Hahahahaha! So I'm only maimed, not killed.

Of course the sodding thing's out of warranty, so I can't even get my money back. Instead I have to traipse into Inverurie to buy something that won't fall apart when I try to use it for the purpose for which it's supposedly been designed.

Bloody Black and Bloody Decker.

I hate DIY.

* See -- it's just like being back in panto again, only I don't have to strap on a cold, sweaty pair of boobs at half seven in the morning. Not unless I feel like it anyway.

Slippery weasel

For some reason Book 4 isn't playing ball. By now there should be lines and stuff popping unbidden to mind, as the back of my head gets on with it's job and starts making things up. Lazy bloody subconscious. What's the point of having a bit of your brain that makes shite up on its own if you can't bend it to your indomitable will?

BEND, damn it!

I know what the story is roughly going to be about: a very nasty blast from DI Insch's past. I know when the thing's going to be set: over the Halloween / Bonfire Night period. And I think there might be some stuff set in Tarves. But definitely in Oldmeldrum as Insch drinks in the Redgarth Inn there. He's the huge fat bastard at the bar, hoovering up all the crisps. I've even got a stack of supporting characters for the book... But what I don't have is the first clue where I'm going to start.

None of the other books have been like this. They've all started to fall into place before I get anywhere near writing the first line. Book 4 is a slippery little sod though. It's not playing.

To be fair -- I've not exactly been bending my brain to the task. I've been sodding about with the edit of BROKEN SKIN and the last programming bitties for the revamped website (after which I'm going to have a huge pile of things to write if I'm going to fill in all the new pages, not to mention all the photos I'll have to take). Tomorrow I've got to get filling, sanding and varnishing all the new woodwork in the spare room; that's a fairly mindless task, so maybe I'll be able to subjugate the old subconscious then.

Of course, I'm back at INoGITCH on Monday -- that may loosen the old brain a bit, or it may just constipate the hell out of it. Difficult to tell from this distance.

A day for depression

I looked up at the calendar this morning and realised something: I have to be back at work in 5 days. EEEEK! Only Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday to go, then I'm back at the old IT-flavoured grindstone. Which I can't really complain about, as I'm doing it voluntarily. She Who Has Delusions Of Grandeur And Actually Thinks She’s In Charge At Casa MacBride has decreed that if I turn into a grumpy stressed bastard again she's going to make me quit by Christmas. I can imagine the resignation letter now:

Dear Sirs,

Unfortunately I am unable to continue my employment with INoGITCH, because my wife won't let me.

Yours sincerely,

S MacBride

How macho is that? And I fear complications as well. Of an medical nature. Yes -- I had my follow-up consultation with the new noseologist this morning and he wants to climb up my nose with a knife. Again. What is it with these surgical people and their fascination with my forbidden nostrils of mystery? I'm thinking of charging admission if the trend continues.

Seems that there are a number of faults with my nose, most of which seem to be down to heavy scarring -- and other such fun things -- following the first two ops. So back into hospital goes Mr Stuart for another round of festering frolics. *sigh* If anyone wants to send sympathy cards it's going to be the 6th of November. As you can tell from my bouncy and sunny demeanour, I'm not exactly looking forward to this, but then it's got to be better than feeling hungover the whole time. Especially without the fun part of getting blootered first.

That's why I worry about the whole 'no work for grumpy sods' rule -- if I leave INoGitch they'll cancel my health insurance and I'll have to pay for all my own nasal spelunking with optional blood loss. And to paraphrase the great Dalai Lama: to fuck with that.

It Official!

Yes, the rumours were true -- I did actually win the Barry Award and I have proof! A nice big plaque that arrived in the post from America the other day and here it is:

Mightily swollen is my head, and trousers! Now restaurants will have to give me the good table, no more sitting outside the gents' toilets for me, with the smell of urinal cakes and other person's farts! Now the only farts I'll have to smell when I'm eating are my own! And I could probably get the restaurant to supply some minion on minimum wage to smell them for me. Ah yes, that's power my friends!

Anyway, now that it's official, I'd like to say a big, huge, groin squeezing thank you to those lovely people at Deadly Pleasures, and everyone who voted for COLD GRANITE. You're all stars. Each and every one of you.

Fife Readers' Day-arama

The hotel restaurant is slightly more crowded for breakfast than it was last night. Then it was just me, on me tod, with the occasional visit from a young lady waitress / barperson who's tan makes her look like she's been dipped in creosote. Donny O'Rourke was supposed to be staying here too, but he found out I would be and did a runner instead. Oh yes, he blames 'last minute commitments' and 'standing in for someone who'd fallen ill at another event', but we all know the truth. The irony is that while I have family in the Kingdom of Fife -- She Who Must and the In-Laws of DOOM come from Pitlessie, not far up the road from here -- right now they're all up north at Casa MacBride while I'm down here. And when I go back home, I'll probably pass them on the dual carriageway heading the other way. It seems that Donny isn't the only one with a cunning plan to avoid me. Swines.

In a bizarre inversion of every other UK hotel I've stayed in for years, all the guests are foreign and the staff are local. Normally it's the other way around. But the table next to me is groaning with Polish workmen in overalls trying to order 'mixed eggs', the one in the corner has Italians debating the merits of black pudding with the waitress -- not the one from last night, this one seems to have avoided the whole fake tan thing -- and a couple of Norwegians next to me wanting bacon, eggs and mushrooms, but none of that sausage or pudding madness. Being a patriot I go for the Full Scottish: eggs, beans, bacon, sausage, black pudding, tattie scone, and grilled tomato. Well, it would be disloyal not to.

For me hotel breakfasts always have to be large and fried. It's the only way I can get through the day, given how crap I sleep in these places. Last night was a shining example -- my room had been designed by a sadist with a radiator stuck on full blast. Even with the window open it was like trying to sleep in a sauna. By the time six am staggered its blearily arse into view I'd given up all pretences of being asleep and went back to reading my book instead. Fun, fun, fun.

The drive to Glenrothes is... interesting. I don't remember ordering the fog, but there's a hell of a lot of it, making the motorway look like it's been submerged in rice pudding. A fraught 20 minutes later I get arrive at the venue, having negotiated half a million roundabouts, only to get lost in the multi-storey car park. Ah yes, I am man.

The day kicks off with an intro from Donny -- which is where the extent of my shortcomings become readily apparent. Everyone else on the panel is, like, you know, clever and stuff. They can remember the names of book they've read for a start. Which is more than I can do. It probably doesn't help that I'm sat next to James Robertson who was longlisted for the Booker Prize this year. Very nice bloke, as are the other panellists, just a lot brighter than I am. Bastards.

"So, can you tell us what book had a profound influence on you as a child?" says Donny. Everyone else comes out with all these classics they've read while I just have a go at OF MICE AND MEN being forced down my throat for O Grade English and hating every minute of it.

After that it goes rapidly downhill. My shining moment of stupidity when I'm asked if there's any literary bubble that needs pricked. And like a halfwit I answer it. Every other bugger on the panel's bright enough to demure, or talk round the subject, but I'm the first to be asked and I say: HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX.

Why? You ask. Why have a go at the world's best-loved author? Eh? Eh -- fat beardy boy? Well, I'll tell you. I think JK Rowling is a good writer; worldwide phenomenon; has got loads of people reading again; made more money off her own bat than the Queen. Good luck to her. BUT -- I think her editor should be taken out and given a damn good spanking by a drunken Irish dustbin man dressed as a wizard. I know JKR can write good books, because both THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE and CHAMBER OF SECRETS were just that. But it seems to me that as soon as she started making them a lot of money. Bloomsbury became more interested in counting the cash than editing the books. And as so much of the company's fortunes are dependent on the next Harry Potter hitting the shelves that everything's done in a rush. It's all money now. They're letting their author down by not editing her work.

Anyway, so having attacked a much beloved children's author, we break up for the first Reading Group Sessions. My lot are doing my favourite book: A TOUCH OF FROST by RD Wingfield. Nearly everyone has seen the TV series and they all seem to like the book, except for one lady who's not got round to reading it before the session -- but says she's really looking forward to starting it now she's heard us all waxing lyrical about it -- and William, a slightly elderly chap who likes the TV version better.

I have to admit that I've never really discussed another author's work in depth before. At least not since secondary school, where I hated having to do it. But the session seems to go OK. Lots and lots of interesting input from the reading groups. Which makes me worry about the afternoon -- when it'll be DYING LIGHT on the menu.

After lunch Donny reads some of his poetry and sings a song. Talented bastard. And then we're off again -- me and my afternoon group following Tracey through to the same room as the morning. Three questions in and so far so good... and then the statement every write-ist dreads:

"Well, I didn't like any of the characters."
"Ah... OK." Stuart goes for a disarming smile, but the reader carries on relentlessly.
"And it could have done with a lot less weather."
"Right... anything else?"
"Too many similes. They were all over the place." Clearly not a big fan then.
"I see."
"And the last hundred pages read like they were written by someone else. They were actually quite good."

Which is a bit of a challenge. I'm used to people telling me my work's shite from the safety of an Amazon.co.uk review. But everyone else seems to like the book, though one lady thinks I should ditch Logan and write about DI Steel instead, as she's a lot more interesting. Just goes to show you -- you can't please all of the people all of the time.

But all in all, I'm pleased with the way the session goes, even the less than positive stuff, because it makes for an interesting time. Afterwards no one asks me to sign their naked body parts. And I've been warming a pen in my pocket specially all morning too. *sigh*

After that it's back to the main hall for a Q&A and the last readers' testimony -- where someone stands up and tells us how they got into reading and what books mean to them. Brilliant idea, and each of the three people who stood up and did them got huge rounds of applause. Which was nice.

I have to say that Fife Libraries, under the steely, watchful eye of the lovely June Souter and her excellent team, lay on a damn fine event. I'm putting a hat on specially, just so I can take it off to them. If you get a chance to go to the Readers' Day, I can wholeheartedly recommend it.

Now, I think I'm going to curl up and sleep for a week.

Like unto an finger in the eye...

Yes, in book-flavoured news: the new name for the US edition of BROKEN SKIN has been confirmed! Sound ye thy bells and thy strumpets for BLOODSHOT. So there you go. I no longer have to worry about coming up with some sort of moniker for the thing until someone tries to translate it out of English and into something a little bit more exotic. Then we'll probably have to go through the whole painful process again. Plus there will be a teeny tiny difference in the text this time between UK and US versions. Not much, but a little.

In non-book-flavoured news we have become infested with in-laws this week, as She Who Must's parents come up to help finish off the spare room. When I say, 'help' I do of course mean, 'do everything with the occasional hindrance from some bearded halfwit'. Well, it's traditional isn't it? Normally I would be more help than a chocolate jellyfish, but I've been doing the acknowledgements for BROKEN SKIN / BLOODSHOT, and some last, last, last minute alts. But now it is done! Hurrah! No more fiddling... at least until the page proofs come back. Then there will probably be more fiddling. But I'm going to try hard to resist the urge this time.

Bad beardy boy: naughty!

And relax.

Where to begin...

A thought that springs to mind: fully-formed and dressed in spandex (maybe with some sort of little cape, nothing too long though, or it'd get in the way if you had to go the toilet in a hurry, say after a dodgy kebab) is that I haven't got a clue what I'm doing. JamesO's post about the whiteness of his whiteboard has brought to mind mine own dilemma*: what the hell am I going to do about getting Book 4 underway?

Normally there's some hook that starts the things off. A phrase that the Ideas Fairy wedges in my lughole at some inappropriate time, that everything else will hang off, like bogies from nose hairs, just waiting for the sneeze of creativity to splatter them out across the hanky of literature. How's that for a metaphor? Eh? Eh? That's writing gold, that is.

I posted in James's comments that the bit before one starts writing should be a golden time -- best part of the whole experience. The page is blank, the possibilities are endless, and as you've not written a single word, you can't have fucked anything up yet. After this it's all downhill. It's like being God, only you don't have to bodge through everything in six days so you can have Sunday off to watch the football and eat chips down the pub with your mates. Maybe go for a curry afterwards. Vomit somewhere colourful, stagger home, and fall asleep on the toilet. That kind of thing.

So how come I'm not started yet? How come I'm sat here, watching aphids committing suicide by flying into the hot bulb of my desk lamp (technically it's not the heat of the lap that kills them: it's the falling stunned to my desk that does it, because that's were I squash the little buggers) and eating Jelly Bean Factory gourmet beans?

Up till now I've been telling myself that I don't want to get cracking on Book Number The Fourth until BROKEN SKIN's out of the way. Seems sensible, keep everything compartmentalised and sorted. After all, you have to remember that I have a very small brain and it gets confused hell of an easy. But the line edit's done; the blessed St Sarah of Fulham Palace Road is putting the finishing touches to the pre-proof copy; and we're good to go. And still that little bogey of beginnings does elude my poking finger**.

And while we're on the subject of nasal creative passages, I am happy to announce that it looks like I'll be going back under the knife to rectify some of the less satisfactory aspects of my sinus surgery. Hurrah! How cool is that? Sound bells and bastarding, bloody trumpets. Just what I need -- more time bleeding. To be honest, I think I've nearly plumbed the depths of that particular happy-fun pastime.

Anyway, back to the point, assuming there ever was one: how to mine the old creative nostril for a nugget of sticky story goodness. I think that tomorrow will be spent soaking in the bath, musing, and maybe playing with a rubber duck***. That'll get things going.

If that fails, I'll post a picture of the inside of my fridge. Well, it works for some people.

* Good God: self-indulgent rambling on Halfhead, bearded blog to the unwashed and dishevelled masses? Who'd a thunk it?
** See: going back to the nose / mucus metaphor -- that's a sign of classy writering, that is.
*** And no, that's not an euphemism.

Not the best of days

Yesterday officially sucked the festering arse of Satan through a snottery hanky.

00:45 -- get home from babysitting Niece Rowan, having spent all night trying to come up with some sort of spanky new title for the American edition of Book 3, without using the word 'Spanky'

01:30 -- drift of into the restless slumber of the damned.

03:00 -- strange noises approaching from somewhere down the duvet. Now, by this I don't mean She Who Must Never Eat Beans Late At Night was providing some sort of tuba-esque concerto, it was the kitten. Feeling affectionate. Anyone who has a cat will know that there are two types of 'happy noise' made by cats. The first is your regular purring: whurrrr, whurrrr, whurrrr... etc. Nice and straightforward. When they get really, really happy though they chirrup. Whurrrrr, chirrup, whurrrrr, whurrrr. The happier they are the more chirruping they do. And Little Miss Kitten Fish was on a chirruping binge, treadling her way up from the foot of the bed so she could come and sookle. This involves squirming around, making her happy racket, and trying to lick the epidermis off my neck. Yes, thank you kitten for being all loveable, but it feel's like you're trying to sandpaper me to death.

03:30 -- tired with feeling affectionate, the cat decides she wants out. Let out cat.

04:30 -- wonder why I'm not getting back to sleep.

05:45 -- sleep.

06:45 -- alarm goes off. Swear.

09:00 -- finish breakfast, go pick up horsebox and buy wood to refurbish spare bedroom. Even though the bathroom looks like a Government Health Warning on the dangers of letting idiots do DIY. The people who had the house before us had a serious screw fetish -- by which I don't meant that they were constantly 'bumping uglies'... I mean they may have been, but I don't know: It'd certainly explain some of the more unusual stains in the carpets -- everything attached to the walls, is attached by dirty big sod-off screws. Huge ones. And the bathroom is no exception. They've gone for a sort of 'done it themselves' wooden panelling effect all the way round the bathroom. It looks a bit like an escaped mental patient helped them. Bloody awful. But I digress -- today's mission is to go get wood* for the spare room.

12:00 -- finally manage to buy, cut to length and stuff wood into horsebox.

12:05 -- drive off as wood place is closing.

12:15 -- realise that I've left a pile of wood at the lumberyard. Not big bits, just stuff I actually bloody need to finish off the bastarding room. Swear. Swear some more. Swear and curse self for being a stupid fucking idiot. Repeat.

12:30 -- arrive home and rush to phone lumberyard to get them to not throw wood out, or feed it to the rabid beavers that roam the plains of Northeast Scotland. It rings and rings and rings and rings. Not so much as an answerphone. Curse people who work at lumberyard, then realise it's not their fault that I'm a moron, so go back to cursing self instead.

12:45 -- eat hurried lunch then dash hell-for-leather to Googling Brother's house. Now GB has a bathroom that can only be described as bloody horrible. Seriously, it's even worse than ours. The whole thing's been done out in the sort of nasty avocado green they used to think was trendy back in the seventies. When people thought it was a good idea to wear flares, and paisley patterned shirts with collars big enough to go hang-gliding with. I can sum the whole room up in three words -- 'Manky, manky, manky'. Which is why I am here, armed with a couple of cold chisels and a four pound lump hammer. For hammering lumps.

14:20 -- discover that battering the hell out of someone's bogey-green bathroom tiles isn't as therapeutic as it should be. The bloody things won't come off in one piece -- the DIY bastards who had the house before GB and SIL Kim have used the stickiest substance known to man (that nasty yellow squish you get when you flatten bluebottles) to put the bloody tiles up. Every swing of the hammer produces flying shards of razon-sharp tile. This means I get to go through their entire collection of sticking plasters in the space of half an hour. Blood everywhere. Do more swearing.

16:50 -- hammer home to shower and change. She Who Must Be Taken Out In Public Every Now And Then and I are off for a pint in Aberdeen with the NortheastPoliceman tonight and we want to grab a bite beforehand.

17:20 -- leap out of car and into shower.

17:50 -- get out of shower and realise there's no way in hell we're going to get into town fast enough to eat anything more substantial than some sort of nasty burger thing, sold by a spotty youth who's probably spat in it.

18:15 -- decide to check email, just to be sure we know where we're meant to be, rather than where I think we're meant to be. Discover that NortheastPoliceman has family emergency and has had to cancel**.

18:16 -- swear.

18:17 -- finish swearing and collapse instead. Then drive into Inverurie to buy nasty steak for tea and bottle of wine instead.

20:00 -- make chilli and mozzarella salad. Discover a new method of inhuman torture by accidentally rubbing a mixture of lemon juice and chilli oil into lacerated hands.

03:00 -- wake to find Grendel T Kitten-Fish 3mm from nose, wanting to be let out.

* Tee hee -- that sounds rude!
** Not his fault and fully understandable. I'd do the same in his shoes. Though how I'd manage to get hold of his shoes, I've no idea. Maybe hang about outside the Inverurie police station pretending to be some sort of secret government shoe inspector.

Shameless

I was perusing JamesO's blog this afternoon and came across the link he'd nicked from PBW -- the Secret Lover Generator. And in the interests of avoiding my having to actually use my brain to come up with words and stuff, I went off and tried said thing. Only I put in characters from detective novels.

So, in a shameless space-filler, Halfhead is proud* to present:

DS Logan McRae's secret paramour

Hmm, thinks Stuart, wonder who DI John Rebus gets up to when nobody's watching...

So far so good. Then, in the interests of fairness I tried John Rickards' Alex Rourke. it's a flash thing, so you have to click on the link. Yes, I could sod about and take a screengrab and trim it down and load it up, but the idea is to cut back on the amount of work I have to do, not make it greater. But go on, click on the link. It's worth it. And surprisingly appropriate, given what I've done to PC John Rickards in book 3.

And last, but by no means least, Mr Billingham**'s DI Tom Thorne.

* Well, maybe not proud, but what the hell...
** Blessed be his name and holy be his underpants

Broken

For some reason, ever since I finished work on the third book I've been falling to pieces. My back's killing me, my head's like the inside of a badger, I'm not sleeping worth a damn (or any other form of water-retaining / hydroelectricifying device), and I've got a crick in my neck. Wah, wah, poor me… etc.

Back when I used to be a fulltime wagemonkey I used to get ill every time I took a holiday. I'd go: stress, stress, stress, stress, day off… ill. With that little ellipsis there lasting anywhere from six hours to a day and a half. Colds, flue, bad back, leprosy, you name it. Well, maybe not leprosy. OK, once, but I was young and I'd had a lot to drink.

This post-book malaise didn't strike at the end of DYING LIGHT, or COLD GRANITE*. Which worries me a bit. Am I doomed to suffer the nasty snorks every time I put a finish a book? Is completing a manuscript bad for my health? Can I get a sick note from my doctor and be excused ever completing another volume? If I rub butter into my thighs will it make them all slippery? Or will it just clag up in the hairs?

Or maybe it's nothing specifically related to the book at all -- maybe I'm just falling apart in a general sense? I blame my sinuses. And people from Fife. But as I can't do anything about She Who Must Be Feared When The Moon Is Full's birthplace, I've been in for a second opinion on the nose front. This involved another CT scan of my head (I'm hoping to see evidence that my brain is still there) and some intimate cavity poking. Next week I shall hear my fate - will I have to go under the knife again? I lost a stone and a half in a fortnight last time, maybe I could lose all that weight I piled on in Iowa?

Not sure if I'm really looking forward to that.

* Incidentally, does anyone know why the hell we're supposed to put book titles in uppercase? Seriously - I haven't a clue.

Because there's always time for realism in poetry

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Eating red-hot scallops,
One fell down his trouser leg,
And burned him on the...

Or at least that was the story he told the nurses in Accident and Emergency when he was admitted for third degree burns to his genitals. The doctors were quickly able to establish that the burn pattern was inconsistent with pan, or deep-fried shellfish. Further, examination proved conclusively that the injury had been sustained by the patient making sweet, sweet love to a Tefal four slice toaster with croissant warming attachment.

Head of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary's burn unit, Doctor Noble (43) issued the following statement:

"We take the NHS's commitment to prevention being better than cure very seriously. As such the attending physician told the patient to sod off out of it, and the next time he injured himself humping household electrical appliances we'd cut his fucking legs off and keep them."

The boy in question , who cannot be named for legal reasons, declined to comment.

Can you tell I'm not working?

Bwahahaha... ha... oh God...

Right, it's nearly two in the morning and at long, festering last, Book 3 is away. Bye, bye! Line edit is done! Halleluiah and pass the Branston Pickle. Now I'm off to sleep for a week -- then I'll have to start Book Number The Fourth.

It's all getting a bit scary. I go back to work in three weeks time and I've got no idea what that's going to be like. I've not done any proper work for a year and a half -- what if I've forgotten how? Can I cope with not slouching about the house all day in my tartan jammies, talking to the cat? It's going to be weird. But at least I can draw comfort from the fact that Book 3 is finally done. Take that, stinky novel of DOOM!