All Hallows Even

Today marks exactly one calendar year since I started working on FLESH HOUSE (AKA: Book Number The Fourth). She Who Must Chauffeur Her Bearded Husband So That He Can Take Photos Out Of The Car Window Or Slam On The Brakes When He Shouts, "Stop! Stop -- Look At That!" and I took a special trip into town to experience Aberdeen in all her Halloween glory. Or not as the case turned out.

When I were a lad (cue the theme-tune from the Hovis advert and sepia camerawork) Halloween was a time for dressing up in proper costumes and learning a party trick. Said party trick would be exchanged for sweets / fruit / and in one instance a cassette tape of James Bond theme music*. It was a time of dookin' for apples; tattie scones smeared in sticky, drippy treacle, hanging from the garage roof so the smeary tar-like substance wouldn't get trodden into the carpet; a time for lucky dips; making lanterns out of neeps (or turnips if you must be all posh about it)...

What it wasn't was a time for buying a crappy £1.50 mask from a supermarket, tying a black-plastic-bag round your shoulders and screaming, "Trick or treat?" at random strangers. The childhood equivalent of demanding money with menaces.

Last year, when we did our little research trip, the only people who seemed to be getting dressed up to go out weren't the little kids, but the students: staggering from bar to bar in a variety of questionable costumes. It's not often you get to see Superman being sick, while a very hairy nun pees in a shop doorway.

But I digress. The thing is that it was a year ago I started seriously thinking about Book 4, and now a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of other books. Book Number The Fifth, to be precise.

Which is a little premature, as we've not even had the line edit of the last one yet. I spent so long on the second draft that the whole schedule has slipped further back than ever. This will not do. I have determined that Book 5 will be finished well in advance of my May deadline. I will not pick apart every rancid-son-of-a-bitch-ing word during the edit. I will have fun writing it, damn it, and I won't spend every waking hour of every waking day either writing the thing, or worrying about it. I'm going to take up a hobby, and have days off, and tickle my cat**.

This is my manifesto for Book Number The Fifth.

And like all political promises, I expect it all to fall apart as soon as I'm elected.

* The tape came from our next door neighbour. He later died in a car crash and the police came to the house to ask my parents if I could come out to play -- i.e. come down to the mortuary and identify his body. They declined. Which is probably just as well, or I might have turned out a bit odd.
** No, that's not an euphemism, you filthy birds.

Boldly going

Maybe not that boldly, more 'sweatily going' if I'm being honest*. That's a week I've been doing this running about like an idiot malarkey and I have to say I've surprised myself.

This isn't as easy as it sounds. I did try hiding behind the door and waiting for me to walk past so I could jump out and yell, "Boo!" But it never worked - somehow I always seemed to know I was hiding there. Luckily this jumping out trick still works on She Who Must Have Her Heart Checked For Stopping And Starting At Regular Intervals -- though for some reason, after the initial bout of screaming has passed, she develops a sudden attack of Tourettes.

Anyway, after a week of running every other day I have turned from couch potato to... a slightly fitter potato. Maybe an armchair potato. Or a divan potato. No longer do I feel like I've died and gone to hell after seven minutes, now I can pant and suffer all the way to twenty. Which doesn't sound like much, but I realised at the end of Saturday's undignified stagger that I'd actually covered nearly nine miles.

Now I'm sure I don't do this with the same kind of panache and ease that Mr James does, but at least I'm getting there. One sweaty, cursing step at a time.

The only trouble is that it's not shifting any of the hibernation insulation I've been laying down for the winter. Not a single ounce. Fitter, but just as fat. Which is a pain because HarperCollins have decided that I need a sexy new publicity photograph, and it's going to be taken next week.

So short of having another bout of sinus surgery, or contracting a particularly nasty strain of food poisoning, it looks like I'm going to be a beardy chubster in the back of the next three books too.

Why do pies have to be so damn tasty?


* Thought I don't see why I should start now.

Manlier than a manly man

Grrrr... Can't you just smell the testosterone? For I am Captain Manly Man, Chief Manly Man of the Manly Men. Like unto an bearded sex god. A slightly chubby one, but bearded nonetheless.

And what is the occasion for this bare-chested demonstration of all things masculine? I emptied the outbuilding at the bottom of our garden yesterday. Which should sound a lot more impressive, but doesn't. It's basically a little grey box-like thing with a Tardis like capacity for containing a hell of a lot of junk bequeathed to us by the DIY-disaster-areas who owned the house before us.

This -- let's be polite and call it 'crap' -- has been lurking out there in the garden, hidden from view for over four years, and yesterday I dragged it all out of there and into the garage. Manly. Then I kicked the rotting floor units they'd half-heartedly screwed to the wall into their component pieces, shouting, "You're nicked, you slag!" Like being in a very low-budget episode of the Sweeny, where Carter and Regan clear out an old shed.

After that I ripped the wall units apart with my bare hands! Grrrrrr! (that's actually a lie, I was wearing gloves, and there was a crowbar involved) Then I did tear down the ceiling exposing a huge mouse nest. No sign of the mice though, I'm guessing they've probably already put in an appearance as 'Contestants A to G' in the dismemberment game show that Grendel puts on in the porch every day.

And not content with this display of maleness, I then went and chapped in a couple of noggins in the porch (it's a joinery term that I throw in here to make the ladies swoon, because we all know how they like a spot of precision woodworking), did some manly stuff up a ladder with a screwdriver, then boned out a leg of lamb and cooked it on the barbecue for tea.

Cooking meat with fire -- what could be more manly than that? And this time I managed to retain ALL of my eyebrows. Which is always a bonus.

Then, secure in my masculinity, She Who Must Buy These Dreadful Women's Magazines Every Now And Then To Keep In Touch With What's 'In Fashion' read me some snippets out of her copy of Elle. Which isn't exactly the most exciting of tomes. We were hoping for some sort of filthy survey to giggle at, but the whole damn thing seems to be about shoes.

Anyway, whilst fighting our way through the morass of adverts that litter the magazine in much the same way that spots litter a teenager's face, we came upon this snippet under the title, 'ellehotlist':

death message
Mark Billingham (Little Brown, £14.99)
The DI Thorne series continues with Thorne being texted images of what he quickly realises are murder victims. He then finds himself led back to a prisoner he sent down years ago. As pacy as ever, this confirms Billingham's status as the only crime writer capable of snapping at Rankin's heels.

Right there, next to a big advert for handbags.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to email Mr Billingham and take the piss. It's what manly men do.

Who Killed Conrad Hersh?

It's taken me way too long to jump on the bandwagon with this one, but as I'm in a reviewy kind of mood, allow me to hold up K Wignall ESQ.'s latest WHO IS CONRAD HIRST? as a fine example of the international thriller.

I was lucky enough to be handed a copy from the man himself at Harrogate this year (he would have got one of his butlers to do it, but they were busy complaining about the size of their master's suite at the time). After months of meaning to get round to it, I cracked the covers a wee while ago and delved inside.

W.I.C.H? is an 'international hit man tries to make good', kind of story with government agencies, conspiracies, first class rail travel, stays at the finest hotels, and tipping the bellboy more than he earns in a week. Incredibly Wignallesque. And very good with it.

I find it very difficult to read when I'm editing, especially towards the end of a book - I'm so focussed on picking my own stuff apart, that I can't stop doing it when I read someone else's. It's a testament to Mr Wignall that not only did I read W.I.C.H? in one go, I enjoyed it as well.

It moves at a cracking pace, the action sequences are almost casual in their violence, and for a cold-blooded killer, Hirst is strangely engaging.

In other news, I've decided to forgo time off following the Edit Of Doom And Despair as Agent Phil (will do monkey impersonations for money or alcohol) wants me to take a polishing brush over the novel HarperCollins were considering before the caught sight of COLD GRANITE. So I'm currently wading my way through a manuscript I wrote five books ago. Scary. And surprisingly swear-free too. So far I've only come across one 'shit' and an 'arse'. So far we are a 'fuck'-free zone.

Ah, they were simpler days...

Stardust

She Who Must Be Reminded That Civilised People Chew With Their Mouths Shut and I went out to the pictures at the weekend. She bought the ice-cream and I bought a hoover (not at the cinema, obviously, that would be silly. They do crap vacuum cleaners there) and then we went to see Stardust*.

Which was actually very good. Yes, I could have done with less of Robert De Niro chewing the scenery with gay abandon, and Ricky Gervais plays... well, Ricky Gervais - same as ever, and some of the special effects are a little ropey, but it was still enjoyable. And Eddie Izzard** wasn't in it, which I always think is something of a bonus these days. But She Who Must Express Her Opinion On Things Not Always Relating To Horses and I would thoroughly recommend it - funny, engaging, romantic, and it buckles a fair bit of swash along the way.

And the ice-cream was nice too.

We're not sure about the hoover yet, it's still sitting in its various 'some assembly required' parts on the library/dining room floor. Grendel managed to overpower the last one, like so many fat mice. Only she didn't chew the back of the hoover's head off and eat its brains. Not literally anyway.

I had a showbiz moment when I paid for the new one - the man took one look at my credit card and said, "Good books." Which was very nice of him, but a little freaky. It's the third time in my life that I've been recognised. Once when I locked myself out of my hotel room in London (I've long since got over the embarrassment of having to go down to reception and explain that I've managed to wind up in the corridor while my door keycard thing is still in the room watching TV and raiding the minibar - it happens about every other trip these days). And once while ordering a pub lunch in Aberdeen.

By my reckoning that makes me a taller, sexier, beardier, and less inclined to believe we're all reincarnated aliens-ier version of Tom Cruise.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go jump on Oprah's couch.

* I'd link to the official sites, but neither of them work on my browser, so sod them. That'll teach Paramount Pictures not to do everything with me in mind.
** Good stand-up comedian, not so good actor. I mean, did you see Ocean's 13? I still have nightmares.

Suicide is painful

I tried to kill myself at the weekend. Not by accident either - this wasn't some sort of 'leaving the gas on then try juggling flaming squirrels' thing, it was on purpose. I came to the conclusion that 4 years sat on my backside making up lies about imaginary people really hadn't done my health any good. Or my waistline.

Let's face it: I'm out of shape. Unless the shape in question is that of a beanbag with a beard. It doesn't help that Googling Brother has recently lost a shed-load of weight. And so has another friend. Both these chaps have been considerably bigger than me for about the last 15 years, and now, suddenly, I'm the one wearing the biggest trousers. Bastards.

So in order to reclaim the moral and changing-room high ground I decided to do something about my robust levels of podge and take up running. How difficult can it be to run about a bit? I wouldn't even have to call out, "Chase me, chase me!" like some sort of saucy minx. Well, not unless I wanted to.

So a running I did go. And after three minutes, I thought I was going to die. After five I thought I had. After seven I realised that I can't have been as well behaved as I'd thought, because after dying two minutes ago I'd been sent to hell. I gave up after ten miles and lay on my back panting and gasping and making strange wheezy noises.

And then, on Monday I did the same thing again. This afternoon I'm going for the hat trick. It was much easier getting out of shape than getting back into it.

While I'm away killing myself, I point your naughty mice in the direction of Mr James's recent interview at In For Questioning. Where he tells scandalous tales of a when we was young, and his recent shortlisting for the Debut Dagger. And I too am interview-tastic over at the South Lanarkshire Council TV Website thing - once there you have to click on the Highlights tab, then select 'In Focus: The Dagger in the Library' to see me in all my bearded, hand-waving glory. This was filmed when I did an event at the Hamilton Townhouse Library where I got my own random heckler - someone who kept interrupting my rambling anecdotes (usually just at the punchline) to ask a completely unrelated question. Nice to have questions, but after about an hour of this he says, "I've not actually read any of your books..."

This means when I finally do die, I'll be able to keep a seat warm in hell for him.

Filthy boy!

As is traditional when the edit of doom has finally wound its way to an embarrassed and trouser-staining conclusion, I present to you the that bastion of all things scientific: the swearometer.



As you can see there's been a substantial downturn in shit this time round, with corresponding decreases in fucking and buggery. The use of that rudest of words (Ladies Front Bottom) has been completely eliminated, due to timely application of the wire brush and Dettol. However, we are seeing a much greater number of bastards, which is in line with current Governmental figures, if not guidelines. The Minister for Swearing wasn't available for comment at this time, but a nice lady in his press office did tell us to "go shove a hedgehog up our arseholes and fuck off" before she "set the bastard-wanking dogs" on us.



Of further interest to those of you with a statistical bent, is the marked downward trend in all areas of rudeness between the first and second draft - with the marked exception of farting, which remains the same. Although we would obviously have hoped for less wanking to have survived, we have to look at the big picture. Swearing on the whole is down by 65% in real terms, and that's a very positive message to take from this.

Daylight

Dear lord, it feels like I've been digging my way out of a pile of manure all year. Which isn't exactly accurate -- I've actually not been buried in tons of horse shit -- but that's what it feels like. Book Number The Fourth was a bastard to write and a bigger bastard to edit. Not because of my editorial love ninjas at HarperCollins, but because of me.

The last four months have been absolutely horrific. Like being trapped in a small office twelve hours a day with a bearded egomaniac shouting at me the whole time, "That's crap, do it again!" , "Why did you do that? It's GARBAGE!", "Again, only better this time!" and, "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

There have been many, many occasions when I thought about giving HarperCollins their money back and retrain as a plumber. The hours are better for a start. And you don't have to work seven days a week.

But now that I've finished torturing myself and obsessing over every single word, I'm actually pretty happy with the result. Yes, FLESH HOUSE was the most difficult to write, but I think it's the one I like the most. Which is pretty usual for me.

I sent it off to my editors yesterday. And the HC email server vomited it straight back. Hopefully this isn't some sort of quality judgement on its part. But I sent it off again today, and the server seems to be keeping it down this time. Even if it is looking a bit peaky.

And as I've been editing, I've been barely online. I missed James's Iceland visit and subsequent credit card shenanigans. I missed Allan Guthrie shutting down Hard Man. I didn't poke fun at John Rickards. At all. Not even once. Well, maybe once, but he was asking for it.

I haven't been posting here, either -- leading to much complaining from She Who Must Have Something To Read With Her Morning Cup Of Coffee She Thinks I Don't Know About. There's a whole backlog of stuff I want to put up too, including my very first interview as the interviewer rather than the interviewee -- with the extremely talented Arian Hayland about his debut novel DIAMOND DOVE.

In order to make things up to She Who Must Watch Her Step If She Knows What's Good For Her, I stole a survey from Russel this morning:

	None: You could easily get away with murder. You have the cold and calculating logic of a sociopath. For all our sakes, go hug someone.
from QuizGalaxy.com

And I give to you an exclusive preview from Book Number The Fourth:



To the woods!

Quickie

I'm off to Bellshill today, and taking the edit with me. It's the North Lanarkshire Word 2007 Festival and I'm down there doing much manly things of beardy goodness at 19:15 this evening. This means I get to spend about five hours on various trains, juggling a laptop and a huge pile of paper in my desperate attempt to get Book Number The Fourth all typed up and off to the great edit in the sky. Here's your hat, what's your hurry.

I did a radio interview for it yesterday on L107, and I was... well, let's just say that I forgot the golden, unwritten rule for radio interviews. It's not something I was told, it's a conclusion I've come to myself, only could I remember it yesterday? Could I buggery.

Don't stop talking till someone interrupts.

That is the golden rule. Don't treat is as if it was a Q&A or you'll end up participating in lots of dead-air pauses as the person on the other end tries to figure out if you've finished or not. The DJ doesn't want a lot of back and forth - he/she wants five minutes peace to drink his/her tea and not have to yammer on the whole time.

But silly old Stuart forgot that yesterday and probably came across as a stilted twit. This does not make a good advertisement for a jolly night out. "Come see the stilted twit! Waste an evening of your life listening to awkward pauses!"

Ah well, live and learn.

Bad book - naughty!

Yes, I've been away for a while... well, not so much away as 'absent between the ears'... well, not so much absent as intent on other things. Yes. Intent On Other Things has a sort of professional ring to it that completely masks the truth - I have contracted a nasty case of edititis tunnelvisionus, but I'm getting better now.

That's right, sound slightly embarrassed bells and trumpets for the EDIT OF DOOM is now a thing of fearful legend. OK, so I've still got to type the bloody thing up*, but as of half past one today I am an edit-free zone. Thank Christ.

It also gives me something to celebrate, which is nice as the recent award season has left me with no excuses to dance any sort of jig and / or consume vast quantities of fizzy wine. Not only did I fail spectacularly to win the TOPCNoTY, I also managed to now win a Barry and a Derringer as well. Yes, by nefarious research on the interweb I see that DYING LIGHT lost out to Ken Bruen's PRIEST for the Best British Mystery Novel Barry, while DAPHNE MCANDREWS AND THE SMACK-HEAD JUNKIES was roundly trounced by Julie Hyzy's STRICTLY BUSINESS for the Best Longer Short Story Derringer. And as far as I know, I'm not up for anything else this year.

Still, as ever it's an honour to be nominated. Even if it doesn't come with a fancy plaque and novelty-sized cheque. And maybe some complimentary dancing girls**.

But the important thing is that I've finished the bastard edit, so let's keep our minds on that, in an effort to be a glass is half full kind of guy. After all, not only did poor DYING LIGHT have to suffer defeat in the Barry stakes, it also had a bit of fan mail all of it's own to deal with:

The opening pages of 'Dying Light' are a miasma of failure.
Relationships, attitudes, and emotions are all dismal.
What could _possibly make me want to continue reading?
Perhaps macbride is a 'misery loves companions' person.
His writing _certainly isn't for me.
I'm a 'cup half full'.
Aberdeen must _truly be a miserable place to live.

Yes, he's a 'cup half full' who likes to email people to tell them that he doesn't like their work, thereby spreading that 'misery loves company' thing around a bit. How sweet. Anyway, Mr Sociable was so convinced that I'd be delighted by his jolly take on the book, that he left me his email address.

Would anyone like to suggest a suitable response? ;}#

* 650 pages of densely scribbled red biro notes and alterations in a barely legible scrawl... no way that'll take me more than... what? A fortnight?
** Which are always the nicest kind. No one wants uncomplimentary dancing girls, do they?