Would you buy a used book from this man?

I did. Well, not a used one, a new one. John Harvey's DARKNESS & LIGHT quotes Mr Billingham on the cover: 'Gripping and heartbreaking in equal measure, this is a must read' Never mind the fact that Mount To Be Read already supports it's own colony of alpine goats and yodelling yetis, off I go, like a good little consumer and add another boulder to the pile. I've only read one of Mr Harvey's books: FLESH AND BLOOD, and enjoyed it immensely. Coincidentally, it's also the February Book Of The Month over at the Billingham Talk Zone Book Club.

And it's not as if one can actually trust this Billingham bloke. After all, when BROKEN SKIN is unleashed upon a cold and uncaring world it will have his quote 'Crime fiction of the highest order' tattooed upon its manly chest. Like some sort of deranged sailor. Popeye: he was deranged. And I'm pretty sure Olive Oil was on drugs too. What sort of bastard parent calls their daughter Olive, when their last name's 'Oil'? Daphne, Susan, Irene, but not 'Olive'. That's just cruel. You know your kid's going to get mercilessly picked on in school. Not surprising she ended up with some freak with huge forearms (and we all KNOW how he got those... filthy beast).

Speaking of blurbs, Book Number The Third is also going out the door with 'MacBride pulls off the remarkable feat of creating a fictional Aberdeen even more hostile and foreboding than the real thing' on it, courtesy of one Mr Christopher Brookmyre. Which continues his unrequited love affair with the Granite City.

I felt too embarrassed to ask Saint Val of McDermid for a quote this time. After all, she's had to suffer the indignity of being associated with Book Number The First and Second. It would have been cruel to make her read Number The Third as well. Plus it gets a bit dirty in places, and I'm sure Val's far too much of a lady to read things like that.

But I have to say that one of the best blurbs I've ever seen is also on that John Harvey book: 'If Harvey gets any better, the rest of us may have to kill him' Reginald Hill. How cool is that? Well, not taken literally, obviously. I mean who'd want to be hunted down and murdered by a pack of incensed -- and probably drunk -- crime-writers?

Must be Monday

Apparently there's a survey out today that lists the most influential people in Britain. According to the woman reading the news this morning said survey puts Sasha Baron Cohen above Prince William in the league of influence. She was shocked that a comedian was more important than a member of the royal family. I was shocked that Prince Bloody William is on the list at all. No disrespect to the bloke (I've never met him, but I'm sure he's just spiffing) but who the hell is influenced by Prince William? Who, when faced with one of life's little dillemas, such as a faulty boiler, flat tire, or excessive flatulence sits and thinks: 'What would Prince William do?' No one. Any if anyone does, they should have all their pointy objects confiscated and be placed in a nice padded room till they show some common sense.

You know, for once I'd like to see newspapers be honest and say, "It's a slow news day; there's bugger all happening. So rather than make some shite up, here's a picture of a lovely kitten."

Another perfect example of 'WhatTheFuckery' is the brand-new prison they've just built in Merseyside. There's no staff, so they want to force prison officers from other institutions to work there. On overtime. The whole place would be staffed with people who've already done a day's work. WTF? Did no one think when they were building the place that they'd actually need... Oh, I don't know... SOMEONE TO WORK THERE? Better yet, they're threatening the Prison Officers' union with legal action if they don't comply. Brilliant. Then the place can be staffed by knackered, grumpy people who don't want to work there, but haven't got any choice. Can't see how that could possibly be a bad idea.

Of course a lot of people are blaming John Reid the Home Secretary, which I suppose is a bit unfair. You can't hand someone a bag of shite and then tell them it's their fault it smells. He does kind of bring it on himself though, being as he is an utterly unlikeable, belligerent, little cockweasel.

And before you ask: yes, I am in that kind of mood today.

Change

Sometimes it's a good thing, sometimes it's a pain in the bum cheeks. But it usually seems like a good idea at the time. For Book Number The Fourth I've changed the way I work. For a start I'm writing the whole thing as one big file, rather than one little file per chapter. Now, on the face of it, that shouldn't change anything, right? It's the same story, just in one big chunk, rather than lots of little ones. Wrong: it makes it very different. When I was writing individual chapter files they always seemed to end up about 10 pages long. Don't know why, that was just how long chapters were. Now that I'm doing it all in a big clump, the chapter length is all over the shop.

Another thing I've changed is the plan. I've got my mindmap thing up on the whiteboard, but now there's a weird 'rolling lookout' thing down one side, which is basically what's about to happen in the timeline. Never done that before either.

Plus I'm trying some new ways of actually telling the story. I thought my ninja editors from HarperCollins would throw a squeaky when they saw what I was planning on doing, but they actually like it. It's a lot more work on my part, but it's kinda fun at the same time. So that's OK.

And I'm trying to change the way I work as well. Last year it was nose to the grindstone: arse in the chair at 08:30 in the morning and bang head off desk till She Who Must Be Used As An Excuse For Indolence comes home from work. If the words aren't coming, it's because YOU'RE NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH! *ahem* This time I'm splitting the day. Some work in the morning, some pottering about at midday-ish, some more work in the afternoon. So far it seems to be working -- I'm getting a bit more done this time than last. Plus I may actually get a life outside of this study. Which would be nice.

"Ah, yes," you say, "it's all very well telling us you're sodding about with things, but is the new book any good?"

Haven't got a sodding clue. And I probably never will. I still don't know if BROKEN SKIN sucks nun's buttocks or not, and it's out in three months.

Something else that's changed is the blog: Blogger forcibly upgraded me a couple of days ago and now stuff doesn't line up anymore. I should probably get round to fixing it at some point. But I probably won't.

Cheap Date

Remember I told you about Googling Brother paying a visit last weekend with his own pet plague monkey (albeit a shaved, dribbly one)? Well she has worked her infectious magic, and now every time I move my head it's like being in the opening sequence of Saving Private Ryan, only without all the people getting shot and blown up. Most of my days at the moment revolve around people getting dismembered. But you know what I mean. It's like there's a drunk camera man standing between me and the world.

Walking's fun too; I've developed a distinct list to the left. And if I stand up and sit down fast, it's like downing four pints and a nip of whisky on an empty stomach. Brilliant. I don't need to go out on the batter any more, just indulge in a spot of standing up and sitting down. And there's no hangover either! Hurrah!

Of course, there is a risk that someone will see me in my dishevelled state and take advantage of me. Which is worrying. God knows Claudia Schiffer has been lurking round in the bushes at the bottom of the garden for long enough, sneaking out every now and then to steal pants off the washing line. Have to remember to keep the doors locked today.

In other news (not that the above counts as news, it's more a kind of incoherent ramble) the cover for the German Edition of DYING LIGHT is now up on amazon.de. Agent Phil pointed it out to me yesterday, which I thought was very good of him, given that he'd been out for a 'power lunch' the day before with a publisher. *ahem*

Die Stunde des Mörders
AKA: The hour of the murderer

Fingers crossed it does well for them. I know some writers are of the opinion that with translations you should take the money and run, but I just don't seem able to do that: I want it to do well. And not just in a 'if it does well, there'll be more money to spend on beardicures and black sports socks' kind of way, if it didn't do well then I'd feel like I'd let the publisher down.

But then maybe I take this all too seriously.

Evil has a new face!

Ah yes, after months of auditions and 'I'm a nobody with no discernable talent, please lock me in a shed for six weeks and film me slowly consuming my own bodyweight in earwigs' style competitions, where someone gets voted off each week via a premium rate number that goes straight against my bar tab at the Redgarth Inn, we have a winner.

Yes, the new 'Face Of Evil' for book number the fourth is... The Brother Formerly Know As Googling Brother!

Before

After

Now some people would have effected this transformation by the cunning use of various Photoshop techniques and Sellotape. Not me: I just locked him in a room with She Who Must Proselytise At Great Length On The Subject Of Horses* And Fife** for fifteen minutes, till I couldn't hear him screaming any more.

But worry not: half an hour with a packet of Tunnocks Tasty Caramel Wafers and he was right as rain again. With only the vaguest of nervous twitches to belie the fact that he was ever less than sane***.

Mind you, he did get his own back, by bringing his daughter the pandemic with him. She spent a happy couple of hours covering everything in sticky baby handprints and saliva. And then infecting everyone and everything with her children germs. Next time she turns up, the whole house is wearing a hazmat suit. Honestly, she's like that monkey in Outbreak, only more dribbly.

Such is the nature of Book Number The Fourth that I need a pretty hefty supporting cast. None of whom will get much more than the briefest of glances, but will still be vital to the ambiance of the whole piece. He said, in a wanky, faux-artistic kind of way.

Which is always fun.

* Shudder
** Double shudder
*** Which is a lie: he's never been vaguely sane.

Tooth and indeed nail

I have to admit that this book is fighting me for every bloody word. It's like wrestling with a greasy weasel. Only a greasy weasel made of words. Typed into a computer... That doesn't make angry, oily, squeaky noises, or bite... so not really like a greasy weasel at all. But you know what I mean. If we have to battle for absolute truth in our analogies, the world would be a much duller place.

Anyway, back to the book. I remember number one being a joy, number 2 being a lightly-oiled mouse, and number 3 being a well-lubricated hamster, but number 4 is the greasiest weasel of them all. Looks like Mr Billingham was right when he said they just keep on getting more and more difficult to write.

I wonder if this is true of all books, or if it's something more specific to series characters... but whatever it is, it's a pain in the arse. Or perhaps it's just 'new book jitters'? You know the ones: where as soon as you start writing the rose-tinted glasses fall from your eyes and the reality of having to take your brilliant idea and turn it into an actual book that makes sense hits you between the eyes like a well hurled haddock?

Or perhaps it's down to some sort of perverse bastard deity?

Francis de Sales is the patron saint of writers, so he should be intervening on our behalves, when books act like small slippery woodland carnivores. But then he's busy being the patron saint of authors, journalists and the deaf, so that probably takes up a lot of his time. Being as he is dead and all.

Why the deaf? I mean, it's cool that everyone gets a patron saint and all, but what bright spark decided that the bloke who looks after authors, journalists and writers -- let's face it: professional liars -- would be the sort of guy to take care of the deaf as well? Don't they deserve someone a bit less associated with 'making shit up'? And as far as I can tell, he's been canonised for having particularly crap doctors. Still his feast day is on January 29th, so we should probably burn some sort of sacrificial offering, or he may become enraged and return from the dead to smite us with his fearsome gonads. Smite, smite, smite. Mind you, if you're a writer (rather than an author or a journalist) you can also get John the Apostle to put in a good word for you, when he's not acting as a go-between for poison sufferers. Between you and me, I think that would be the more urgent of his duties, don't you?

"Oh St. John, mighty is mine anguish: chapter three is shite and I have no idea why. My characterisation is thin... I could do with a decent plot twist as well. And while you're at it, please smite down Jeffery Archer and Dan Brown with your mighty, vengeful gonads!"
Versus:
"Shit! I've been bitten by a snake! AAAAARGH!!! I've been bitten by a fucking snake!!!"
Of course nearly everyone has a patron saint these days, even lawyers. And not just one either, lawyers have St. Mark, St. Raymond of Penyafort, St. Yves, and the ever lovely St. Thomas More looking after the tarnished and tattered scraps of their immortal souls. Assuming they have any.

But politicians? Nada. There are even two patron saints of stomach disorders: Timothy, and Wolfgang. So if you've got a bad dose of the Norris McWhirters you've got someone to pray to when you're tuning the porcelain tuba, but not one dead canonised catholic wants to be associated with politicians.

Can anyone say, 'lost cause?'

Moooooooo

I got to visit an abattoir yesterday*, and very interesting it was too.

Not only was it fascinating to see the whole process, but it's also going to change the book. I did learn things. Oh yes indeedy. Things that will make the book a lot richer and a bit darker too. I hope so anyway.

Mind you, having been a committed omnivore all my life, I was a little worried that seeing the beasts walk in one end alive and come out the other end in little shrink-wrapped packages might blunt my appreciation of meat. But it didn't. So I went and bought a steak from the Abattoir's factory shop for tea.

And very tasty it was too.

* Thanks to the clever ministrations of James's brother Duncan.

Timmy and the Sniffy Spaniel

"Gosh, mummy," said Timmy, hopping down from the breakfast table, leaving a half-eaten bowl of Wheatypuffs, "I hope you remembered to pack my gym kit today! We've got Mr Frobisher this afternoon and he makes us play netball in our pants if we forget. And then he watches us in the showers."

"Mmm? That's nice dear." Timmy's mummy didn't even look up from the paper.

"He offered to wash Little Stinky Wilkinson's unmentionables for him last time."

"Don't forget your packed lunch, dear." She waved a slice of buttered toast at a Spiderman lunchbox on the counter.

Timmy grabbed it and skipped out the kitchen door. Remembering at the last moment to rush back and give his mummy a kiss on the cheek.

Outside it was a lovely sunny morning. All the flowers were out, and little happy bees bumbled through the warm air, making honey for all the children. Timmy ran into his bestest friend Johnny at the corner. Johnny was waiting for the lollypop man to come so he could cross the road to school.

"Hello Johnny!" said Timmy.

"Hello Timmy!" said Johnny.

They stood and waited patiently until old Mr Durham shuffled up with his big traffic stopper, that looked like a lollypop and had 'Stop Children' written on it. Secretly Timmy felt sorry for Mr Durham, because his wife had died three years ago and now his existence was one long parade of misery and loneliness. Timmy thought that Mr Durham probably thought about killing himself, but was too scared to go through with it. Which was a shame.

Mr Durham walked into the traffic, but no one ran him over. So he sighed, and waved the boys across.

"Did you hear?" said Timmy as they skipped down the road and through the school gates. "We're having a visit today, from a policeman and his doggy!"

Johnny froze. "Are you sure, Timmy? A policeman and his doggy?"

Timmy beamed with pride. "Positive! I heard mummy talking to the headmaster last night all about it. He's one of her regulars and likes to be spanked."

"Oh... bum!" said Johnny. "Oh bum, bum and double, triple bum!"

"What?"

Johnny looked round them, then dropped his voice to a whisper: "I've cheeked about an ounce and a half of Moroccan brown."

"Tee hee!" Timmy laughed. "'Moroccan brown' sounds like number twos!"

"Will you grow up? This is serious!"

Johnny looked so sad that Timmy felt sorry for teasing him. "I'm sorry, Johnny." He said, and offered his bestest friend a fizzy cola bottle to make him feel better.

"Fuck!" Johnny looked about nervously, but old 'Basher' Brigs -- the school bully -- was nowhere to be seen. Because he'd been wounded in a drive-by shooting last week and left in a coma. "Look, could hold some stuff for me? Till after assembly?"

Timmy thought about it. "Sorry Johnny, but I've already got an ASBO for possession with intent. Besides, it's been up your bottom. Can't you plant it on one of the girls instead? They're icky!" Timmy thought all girls were icky, because they made him wear a little rubber sleeping bag on his fireman, before they'd play with it.

Johnny chewed his bottom lip for a moment. "I know!" He smiled, happily. "I'll hide it behind the cistern in the toilets! No one will ever think of looking there. We hid that flick-knife in there for weeks, till the cops stopped looking."

"What a great idea, Johnny!" Timmy clapped his hands with glee -- his friend was very clever!

But suddenly Timmy's clever plan was ruined, as nasty old Mr Hargreaves, the maths teacher, stormed into the playground shouting: "Didn't you hear the bell, you little horrors? Assembly! Everyone in the gym hall now!"

Johnny went pale, but Timmy had a clever plan of his own! "Excuse me, sir," he said, holding his hand up, so the teacher could see him, "but Johnny's got a nasty case of the squirties! He's like a balloon filled with brown Windsor soup. Shall I escort him to the toilets?"

Mr Hargreaves checked his watch. Frowned. Then said, "No. He should have gone before school. I'm sure he can hold out for another twenty minutes. Come on everybody!"

"But..." said Johnny, "But I'll crap myself!"

"Then you'll have to sit with Mrs Richmond the Religious Education teacher."

"Why?"

"Because I don't like her." And then he ushered them all into school.

The gym was full of children all sullen and sulky, waiting for the assembly to be over so they could go sniff glue behind the bike sheds at break time. Timmy didn't believe in sniffing glue. Sniffing glue was silly and stupid. Especially when your bestest friend had an ounce and a half of best Moroccan hashish.

Timmy sat in his seat and waited for the headmaster to get up on the stage. He didn't look the same without his gimp mask and the black rubber trousers with no bottom to them. The headmaster's bottom always looked very pink and sore when he visited Timmy's mummy, but he always seemed very happy.

"Right you lot, settle down." Said the headmaster, sitting carefully on one of the seats. "We have a visitor with us today..." The headmaster paused for effect, and Timmy glanced over at his bestest friend, wondering if Johnny really did have diarrhoea -- he certainly looked like he was doing a number two in his pants right now. And there was a very nasty smell coming from his direction. The headmaster pointed a hand at a frumpy lady sitting next to grumpy old Mr Hargreaves, "Mrs Wilson."

Mrs Wilson stood up and smiled at them all. "Good morning children."

Everyone smiled back at her, except for Johnny who was trying to fake having a seizure to get away before the rozzers arrived. "Good morning Mrs Wilson."

Mrs Wilson nodded happily. "You were supposed to have a visit this morning from a policeman and a sniffer dog. Do you know what a sniffer dog does?"

Timmy put his hand up and said, "He sniffs!"

Mrs Wilson clearly didn't know if he was taking the piss or not, but she soldiered on regardless. "That's right: he sniffs. He sniffs for drugs. Drugs are bad, aren't they children?"

"Depends how much they cost." Said a little girl from 2B. "Sometimes they cut the really cheap drugs with caustic soda or washing powder, and that shit can seriously fuck you up."

"Ah..." Mrs Wilson's smile slipped a bit. "Yes... Well..." She cleared her throat and tried her happy smile on again. "Well, we at Norfolk County Council have decided to ban the police from visiting schools with sniffer dogs, because they might catch one of the children or teachers with drugs, and that's not good for your self esteem."

"Hurray!" shouted the children.

"Hurray!" shouted the teachers.

"Thank fuck!" shouted Mr Hargreaves.

Timmy turned and winked at Johnny, who was wriggling about in his seat with one hand down the back of his trousers -- trying to find the ounce and a half of Moroccan brown in his squidgy pants and re-cheek it.

Everything had turned out all right!

The end.

And I'm not kidding either: Council Bans Sniffer Dogs From Schools.

State of the union

There was a tosspot on the telly this morning. Not on our telly specifically, I mean he wasn't standing in our living room masturbating among She Who Must's collection of little porcelain piggies*, he was in the BBC Breakfast studio. And technically he wasn't actually physically pleasuring himself, as Ofcom tend to disapprove of that kind of thing while the viewing public are eating their Wheatypuffs. But I was inclined to shout "Posstot!"** at the TV, nonetheless.

They were debating the whole Act Of Union that 300 years ago made Scotland and England into one big happy family. Borrowing each other's frocks, bitching about boyfriends and who keeps drinking the milk from the carton... are those little soggy bits of Weatypuffs in there? And how is the UK celebrating this momentous occasion? Street parties? Fireworks? Mass naked Sumo wrestling in a vast tub of jam and porridge? No, they're issuing a commemorative £2 coin. Rock and roll.

But the anniversary is a great excuse for the media to stick microphones in people's faces and ask: "Should we all fuck off and go our separate ways?" If not for that, I doubt most people would have remembered. I certainly didn't. Not till I turned on the telly and found a permatanned posstot fondling his figurative genitals.

It probably didn't help that he'd gone to University in Aberdeen and described the place as having horrible weather***. But what got my goat, shaved its bottom and gave it a good spanking, was the comment that often gets trotted out by permatanned posstots whenever the whole Scotland / England separation thing comes up: Scotland gets much more per capita out of the union than anyone else. Which basically means we're all a bunch of freeloading, ungrateful bastards and how dare we not support the English football team. *ahem* The person on the other side of the table raised the question, "What about the Scottish oil?" And the orangey cockweasel's response? "The oil belongs to all of us."

Which again is a pretty much par for the course. When an athlete from Newcastle wins something at the Olympic games, it's a Gold For England! When someone from Glasgow or Aberystwyth does the same thing, it's a Gold For Britain! (I blame the media) Why should oil be any different?

And the really sad thing is that people like the orangey cock-weasel always seem to be the ones you see on the telly mouthing off (just as up here it's the 'Remember Bannockburn!' mob mouthing off in the pub -- remember Bannockburn? No, it happened in 1314 so I wasn't there, and neither were you. Or your parents. Or their parents. Or their parents' parents' parents. It was nearly seven hundred years ago for God's sake: get over it.) Normal people, don't -- really -- care. That's why we're celebrating with a £2 coin.

I have to say that I've not really got any strong opinions on whether Scotland and England should stay conjoined, or be surgically parted. I wasn't too keen on a Scottish parliament -- not for political reasons, but because I figured one lot of freeloading, corrupt, power-hungry bastards telling us what to do was bad enough, without lumbering ourselves with another layer -- but it's made some reasonably good decisions. And some crap ones too. Should England have its own parliament? Why not, if it wants one. We've got one, the Welsh have their assembly, be a bit unfair to say that England aren't allowed to play too.

Perhaps then we could have a reasoned, adult debate about the future of the UK, instead of dragging up all the old prejudicial bollocks about freeloading, football and the clearances.

So what do you think, oh lurkers of blogdom: Scotland, England and the act of union. Discuss.

* That's right: she collects porcelain toes. It's a Fife thing, I think.
** Because I am polite and do not want to traumatise my cat with rude language.
*** Yes, I know I've cast the occasional aspersion on our metrological delights, but I LIVE here. Criticising your own home town is an unalienable right. Anyone else doing it needs a stiff kicking. This is the way the world works.

Reviewerising

I normally steer clear of reviewing books at Casa Del Halfhead, primarily because... well, I'm not entirely sure. I think it has something to do with having been on the receiving end of enough poopy, bitter, twisted and downright nasty ones to make me wary of putting the boot into someone else. Fair's fair after all. So I usually just recommend things I've liked. There's a bigger discussion about what value reviews serve and the intention behind them, but that's for another day. Today, I'm inclined to put the boot in.

But because I'm basically a nice person (*cough*, *cough*) I'm going to spare the writer in question's blushes and not name them, or their book. "What's the point in that?" I hear you moan. "If you're going give someone's book a kicking, shouldn't we know whose it is?" No. And don't be naughty. I'm complaining about this particular book, because it's a perfect example of how to annoy the crap out of picky-bastard readers (like me).

1: Dialogue.
A book is like a milking stool: it has three legs and a buxom milkmaid perching upon it with her pert and lifelike buttocks. Leg number one (of the stool, not the milkmaid) are the characters. Leg number two is the narration. Leg number three is the dialogue. The seat is the plot. And the buxom milkmaid is the actual story. As with any three legged thing, if one leg is a bit dodgy, everything collapses and the buxom milkmaid ends up flat on her arse in a cowpat. And so many people write the most appauling dialogue, it's a wonder the countryside isn't littered with dairy operatives covered in shite.

Here's the example. I've changed the character names, but the basis set-up is this: Detective Nipples is a senior police figure who has previously been screwed over by Agent Bumweasel to the point where his career was nearly ruined. So there's no love lost. Detective Nipples hates Agent Bumweasel, and how does he express this burning desire to see the man's testicles ripped apart by rabid lobsters?

"If I had my way, I'd never tell you. You're an unpleasant person. But the law being what it is, I called you this morning, just before you called me."

Blistering, isn't it? 'You're an unpleasant person.' God, can you not just feel the venom? Never mind the expositiony 'But the law being what it is, I called you this morning, just before you called me' bit. Actually, I do mind that bit. It's a vast, steaming example of Who The Hell Talks Like That? If Agent Bumweasel screwed you over, would you call him, 'an unpleasant person'? I don't bloody think so.

After all this time, you would think people would finally get the message: READ YOUR DIALOGUE OUT LOUD. Everyone and their maiden aunt drags this piece of advice out time and time again, but people still don't sodding do it!

And I'm not talking about fledgling writers on their first book either. Detective Nipples and Agent Bumweasel feature in the third book of an award-winning author with bestseller credentials and glowing blurbs from BIG NAME writers. And he still comes out with 'you're an unpleasant person'. *shudder* Of course there are other chunks of dialogue that make my toes curl in there, but let's be nice and leave it there.

2: Building up to nothing
This also bugs the nipples off me (in my role as buxom milkmaid) -- when a writer sets something up, chapters in advance and then doesn't follow through with it. In this case it's something that so clearly screams 'THIS IS GOING TO FEATURE IN THE FINALE!!!' it could have 'plotbunny' tattooed on it's arse and a big, pimp-style hat. And it does indeed feature in the denouement, only a way that completely pisses away any dramatic tension. It's a bit like spending three chapters describing how the hero's built a nuclear warhead from an old Kenwood mixer, some bogies and a family-sized box of cornflakes, only when it comes to the big dramatic finale he decides to take the baddie out for a cup of coffee instead.

The book that shall remain nameless does this at least twice. And it's a shame, because if the writer had actually done something with these carefully crafted build-ups it would have been a much, much better book. There was an opportunity to make something great, but instead of going 'BANG!' the book went, 'fut...' instead.

3. Who the hell is everyone?
Well, you might have introduced Mr Mousetrousers fifteen chapters ago, but you know what: if you just drop his name in the narrative and expect me to know who the hell you're talking about, you're going to be disappointed. But not as disappointed as I'll be, when I haven't got a scoobie who you're talking about. And if I don't know who the bugger is, then whatever cunning bit of info you're imparting is going to be completely lost on me. I now have no idea what you're on about. And that never bodes well.

Give me some context! REMIND me who Mr Mousetrousers is, and why it's vitally important that he was in the hotel when the photo of Captain Stickyparts was taken. Because it's not that far from not knowing, to not caring.

I have to admit that I finished the book through determined bloody-mindedness, rather than any desire to actually find out what happened. Don't get me wrong: there were some very well written bits in the thing, just not enough to compensate for the wobbly three-legged stool. Straight in the cowpat.

Just thought I'd get that off my chest...

Just how stupid do they think we are?

This whole not sleeping nonsense has gone on long enough. We went out and bought a jar of Kalms Sleep. According to the write-up, 'Kalms Sleep Tablets are a traditional herbal remedy containing a blend of plant ingredients that help promote natural sleep.' That'll do for me then. Trouble sleeping? Take something that promotes sleep. Job done and everyone's happy. Until you read the warning bit on the side of the box.

I'm not pregnant or breastfeeding, so I'm OK on those counts. Nor am I under 12 years old (though She Who Must Treat Her Poor Husband More Cruelly Than Anyone Else In The World likes to think that I act like I am), so that's not going to be a problem either. No what bothers me is the line that says, 'May cause drowsiness.' May it? I would bloody well hope it does: that's what I bought the sodding stuff for in the first place. If it doesn't cause drowsiness I'm going to take it back to the shop and ram it up the nose of whoever's manning the Customer Services desk.

Mind you, it's not the only half-wit thing in our bathroom -- not counting me, of course -- there's the handwash. Asda's 'Fresh anti-bacterial handwash' to be precise. It moisturises, is tough on germs and is the same sort of luminous lime-green colour as radioactive bogies.

The small print on this one says, 'This product is safe for use up to 24 months after opening.' Which is nice. But what happens after that? If you've not used the whole thing in one year, eleven months, thirty days, twenty three hours, fifty nine minutes and fifty nine seconds, does it suddenly become dangerous to use? Does it eat through skin? Actually, that might explain the nasal ectoplasm colour. Maybe it goes feral and runs through the house with a pair of scissors? Or has play swordfights with bamboo canes. Our mum always told us we'd put someone's eye out if we played pirates with bamboo canes. Which is probably why Long John Silver and Captain Hook have to wear an eyepatch. Their mums didn't warn them when they were little.

Or maybe they kept their Asda Fresh anit-bacterial handwash one day too long and paid the ultimate price?

Violence and double-talk

"Psssst... are you awake?"
"No."

"You are, you're awake."
"No I'm not. Now bugger off."

"I'm bored!"

"Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored..."

"Bored, bored, b--"
"Of for the love of God. Will you bugger off! I need to get some sleep!"
"You said you were asleep. You were telling fibs."
"It's one o'clock in the bloody morning!"
"I know. I'm bored."
"I swear to God, if you don't sod off and leave me alone I'll--"
"Let's play a game or something."
"No. SLEEP!"

"I'm still bored."
"For GOD'S SAKE it's... It's nearly half one now. Half an hour you've been bugging me!"
"But I'm bored!"
"Then do something."
"What?"

"What should I do?"

"I could sing a song?"
"NO! No singing. It drives me mental. Do something productive instead. Count sheep or something."
"La, la doo-be-doo, la-la-la-la-la doo, doo doo-be-doo--"
"SHUT UP!"

"That's no way to treat your own brain."
"If you don't shut up, right now, I'm going to go through to the lounge, find that bottle of whisky Fiona's dad gave us for Christmas and drink the lot of it!"
"You wouldn't! It's 56% proof! Think of the hangover!"
"It'll shut you up."
"Last time you tried it, your tongue went numb."
"I'm serious."
"OK, OK... sheesh."

"I'm still bored."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAArgh!"
"Maybe we could think about the book instead? I've had this idea about that bit we're supposed to write tomorrow. The one we planned out?"
"That's it: I'm going to the drinks cupboard."
"I think we can do it differently and it'll work much better."
"I'm getting up. See, I'm putting on my pyjamas. You're going on a one-way trip to blooteredsville!"
"It'll make the book better... well, less crap anyway."
"I want to go to sleep! It's the middle of the night."
"Look, you're up now. Might as well go through to the computer and try writing for a bit. What have you got to lose?"

"Come on, it'll be fun."

"La, la doo-be-doo, la-la-la-la-la doo, doo doo-be-doo--"
"OK, OK! I'll go do some writing. Bloody brain."

Poster Boy

It's been a funny old day. Thought I was getting nowhere with the book, but then turned round at the end of the day and found a little over 2,000 words stuffed into the electronic cheese-holes in the computer. I think it helps that one of the characters is basically Marky B, so I can take the piss with impunity, and have fun doing so.

The only trouble is that I don't think I can call him Chief Constable Mark Billinhgam of West Midlands Police. I'd like to, but I don't think I'd get away with it. Not after having PC John Rickards in BROKEN SKIN. There's such a thing as taking an in-joke too far, after all. People might grow to expect a different crime writer to pop up in each book. And I get the feeling that's not too good an idea.

Other strangenesses come in the guise of a 'Best of 2006' list*. I didn't make many best of lists this time round (as I'm shy and retiring), but the National Review Online did say:

"The best--and the least known--of the Scottish police procedural writers, Stuart MacBride's excellence comes close to making him Michael Connelly with a burr."

Among other things. Which is nice. I can burr with the best of them: put your cheek up against your monitor and feel the faint vibration of my manly, Scottish twang... Rrrrrrrr... Was that good for you? You naughty minx!

Tomorrow I'm going to take the piss some more. And then maybe make something nice for tea involving smoked Toulouse sausage and green lentils. We've been on something of a gastronomic roll of late: baked trout with dill and vermouth; pan-fried venison fillet with spinach and crushed new potatoes; roast free-range chicken with garlic stuffed peppers; home-roast spare ribs with a piquant glaze and sweetcorn muffins; spinach and chicken risotto; and tonight it was tartiflette. Which probably isn't helping the old waistline get back into any sort of shape -- other than 'distended' -- after the festive excesses.

Still, everyone has to have a hobby, and right now cooking seems to be mine. I should probably take up something less inclined to lead to obesity and heart attacks. Like ballroom sniffing, or formation gurning, or something involving chasing slow-moving things with a pointy stick.

After all, there's more to life than making stuff up.

*With due defference and thanks to Mr K Wignall for pointing it out to me.

Sunday's things are full of stuff...

Like The Nameless Horror and Mr Sunshine, I got my PLR statement in yesterday. As such I have to give a big 'up' to all my righteous homies what did borrow the book. Because thanks to those lovely people at the Public Lending Right organisation, I get a wee pile of pennies every time someone takes any of the books out. And it all soon mounts up. Hurrah! The strangest thing though is seeing how many people have actually frequented their local library looking for something decent to read and ended up with me instead: just over 28,000 of them. Poor sods.

In other news: today is the day that Sandra's first book (Suspicious Circumstances) hits the world! It's been getting some really good notices, which is nice to see. She Who Must Have An Excuse To Drink More Reasonably-Priced Australian Sparkling Wine and I shall raise a glass in her honour tonight. It's always cool when a friend does well. So if any of you out there have books coming out, let me know so I've got an excuse to raise more glasses! Mind you, it doesn't even have to be books, it could be a promotion, or a new dishwasher, or a smaller electricity bill than you were expecting. I'm not fussy; we'll celebrate the opening of an envelope around here.

And in otherer news, Tammy is bucking for 'nicest person in the world: 2007'. She's a braver woman than I am. I only ever made it as far as 'Silly Village Girl' and 'Aesthetically-Challenged Sister'. Still, it's a career highlight I suppose...

Independentistical Podcastulation

Yup, the hoopla and huzzas for the paperback of DYING LIGHT are now in full swing. Soon there will posters the length and breadth (but not depth) of the British Isles. To whet the appetite of a Christmas-jaded public, the Independent has put up a podcast with some bearded bloke in a pub, pretending to be me.

Obviously it's not me, because as you all know: the demon drink never touches my beard... *cough* ahem...

Rabid Weasel clean-up in aisle six!

I was out breaking one of my New Year resolutions yesterday: spending far too much money in the supermarket, when I happened upon an old lady (Which is much more polite than coming across one, that's just rude and wrong, unless you're an old man and they're into that kind of thing... or a toy boy... or perhaps a gigolo whose clients frequently have pension books.) She was looking to get past, so I stopped, reversed my trolley and ushered her through.

Now normally I would expect nothing. Not even eye-contact. But with my optimistic hat on (the one with the leopard skin trim that my Hos like so much when they should be out there makin' me mo money!) I would like a smile, maybe a little nod of thanks. What I didn't expect was her to suddenly explode... Not literally -- I meant there weren't sticky little chunks of old lady all over the cereal aisle, no extra special protein in the Grandma and Honey-Nut Fruit Loops -- it was thanks she exploded with.

Which was sweet -- it's always nice to be appreciated, but what the hell is wrong with people today that a little old lady thinks it so unusual when someone's polite, that she has to bubble over with thanks? And worse: it was so unusual that she'd actually said thank you, that I had to thank her for doing so!

Seriously, at the risk of sounding like an old fart, why do people have to be such cock-weasels in supermarkets? Sullen-faced bastards shoving their trolleys of laden doom about, as if it was some sort of chore to have to actually interact with other human beings. Sullen-faced bastards who haven't got a sodding clue about that whole 'P's and 'Q's thing. Sullen-faced bastards who think everyone else should probably just fuck off and die (just as long as it's not in the jam, jellies and preserves aisle, as they're after some chunky grapefruit marmalade with deep-fried ocelot nipples) because THEY'RE DOING THEIR SHOPPING!

I think we should take a leaf out of Tyler Durden's book and start 'Polite Club'. The first rule of Polite Club is you do not talk about Polite Club!

As your exercise for this week, I want you to go out and be polite to a random stranger. And if they don't say thank you, you have my full permission to ram a rabid weasel up their fundament.

Sullen-faced bastards.

Plan for change

Well, it took slightly longer this time than it did with either BROKEN SKIN, or DYING LIGHT, but after three days of proper writing time I've started deviating from the plan. I know there are those out there who will be throwing their hands up in horror and making startled farting noises, but that's just the way it works for me. In Casa MacBride, a plan is an indication of intent, not a cast iron thing that MUST BE FOLLOWED!!! If something more interesting comes up while I'm writing, I'll go with it. Often this is where the stuff I'm happiest with comes from.

I should say that the latest deviation isn't a huge one. I'm only marginally deviant. But it's a change from what I was planning on. I think it works a lot better too.

In the early hours of this morning however, I was convinced it was the most steamiest pile of old scrotums there was. Half past three in the morning and the thought struck me: 'It's all garbage! It's all slow garbage! AAAAAAArgh!' But today I reread it and it's actually OK. Bad late night / early morning brain! Naughty!

Part of what I've been fighting against with this part of the book (chapter the first) is the urge to heft in a big shovelful of cast members. It's a particular problem with series books -- I know all the characters, a lot of the readers will recognise them too, so why not just lump all the bastards in at the start? You know you want to...

No -- I -- Bloody -- Don't!

When people say to me, "Stuart, you sexy hunk of a bearded man you, please give us your writing tips!"... actually that's never happened. Well, maybe once. Ok, so it was once, and I made up that bit about 'sexy hunk of a bearded man'... And they just wanted to borrow money...

Anyway, it is my unconsidered opinion that if you don't establish a central character fairly strongly early on in a book, it makes it a lot easier for people to not give a shit about what happens to them. At least it does for me: when I'm presented with a cast of thousands in chapter one, I usually end up shouting at the pages, cursing the author, his/her naughty parts and suggesting that a cheese grater enema be applied.

This might be down to my having a brain like a sieve: it's going to take me long enough to remember your protagonist's name without confusing the issue. So I go through, paring back the named characters to a bare minimum, at least at the start of the book. I think BROKEN SKIN has something like 72 named characters (not counting Logan and Jackie and Insch and Steel and Rennie...), so it's not like I shy away from using names for people, but I try not to overload them at the start of the book. Not till I've got Logan established as MR CENTRAL CHARACTER MAN!

Well, it works for me anyway. And before you get worried, no: 'tips from the bearded write-ist' this won't become a regular feature. We'll be back tomorrow with our regularly scheduled 'people in supermarkets should have rabid weasels forcibly inserted into their personal cavities' post.

Foul

Well, the New Year seems to be off to a blinding start; it’s 04:30 on a pitch-black Tuesday morning and I’m in a sodding rotten mood, sat in front of the computer instead of being curled up in my fluffy bunny PJs with matching socks and bobble hat. I can barely see the keyboard for the dark cloud lowering overhead, and for once the dark rumbling isn’t the result of too many festive sprouts.

Stuart is not a happy camper.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take it out on Logan McRae. If I’m having a shitty day, he’s about to have a much, much worse one. And as he’s fictional, he can’t sue me for being nasty to him.

Take that, Fictional People, take that in the eye with a stick!

In which we wonder how long he’s going to keep this title thing going

I was going to write something erudite and insightful, but in the end Grendel decided she was more in need of a cuddle. So I did that instead.