The last few weeks have quite busy for me and I’m finding that as things heat up for my published deal, I’m actually really good at multitasking. This proves above everything else that my mother is a liar; men can multitask just as well as women. But if she lied to me about man’s inability to multitask, then what else has she been lying about? I dare not ask her that question because she’s quite fearsome: when I was born my doctor was too scared to slap me in case my mother head-butted him in retaliation.
The Nameless Writing Group
We still don’t have a name but the first session of my fabulous new writing group commences on Thursday at Cumbernauld Theatre. There is a fee but then I’ve always said, “If you want to see me, you’ve got to pay the fee.” I said that as far back as primary school. God, the teachers must have fantasised about slapping me over and over again. One of them actually did slap a pupil, but it was my friend who felt the hand of justice across her face. She was out with me last week to the Chinese Buffet. There are approximately one hundred Chinese Buffet eateries in Glasgow. Seriously, there are loads of them but the food tastes good in each and every one. At this rate my nickname will soon become Titanic Tits and people will crave to whisper sweet nothings at them. I will scream, “Look at my damn face!”
I am and always have been a feminist. Oh, and punk rock.
I’ve been playing my new/old Atari this week and got myself a new high score on Centipede!
My publisher is sending representatives out to the Frankfurt Book Festival in October to sell my book to other publishers worldwide. I’d be surprised if they manage to sell a book as bleak as Conjuring The Infinite, but whenever I doubt myself I remember how bloodthirsty the YA market actually is and I take refuge in a good Robert Cormier book. I’ve been flexing my promo power and contacting the names in my Filofax to see if there are any prospects for interviews and publicity. I’ve heard back and they’re all raring to go. Hurrah! FACT: I’m one of those dreadful people who give names to iPods and other inanimate objects. My Filofax is called Ludus and is named after the underrated post-punk duo. My iPod is called Kurious Oranj and is named after an album from The Fall. Yes, my iPod is orange. My last iPod had the name Betty Bloo because I love Betty Boo.
The Rain On My Window or in Scottish, The Rain Oan Ma Windy
It’s raining outside as I type my diary for you to read.
I went to fellow Strident author Matt Cartney’s recent book launch. He’s the author of the Danny Lansing series. The night was rather great; cake canopies on a tray, wine and fruit juice, me in a reflective glossy suit. What more could you ask for? It was lovely. At one point I said to the publisher, “This is really cool,” to which he replied, “Get used to it, Kirkland.” I nearly did a victory dance but I stopped myself when I realised that in my head I dance like Fred Astaire but in the real world I dance like Carlton from Fresh Prince Of Bel Air.
This week I’ve been listening to The Donnas and Juliana Hatfield among others.
Conjuring The Infinite
You might have missed this but just in case you did, here are some links to pre-order my forthcoming debut novel:
We all want to see bookshops kept open so buy it in a bookshop if you don’t want to pre-order.
Moany Pony #2
I’m working on Issue 2 of my official punky ‘zine Moany Pony.
My Sister’s Birthday
“No!” She screamed at me. “I don’t want a party. I don’t want anyone to know!” I can understand how she feels. Whenever someone says life begins at forty, they’re clearly lying to you. It’s like my mother and her man bashing propaganda about our supposed inability to multitask. Life does not begin at forty. Old age doesn’t bring wisdom – it brings arthritis, inflammation, IBS and more horrible grievances. Now of course forty isn’t anywhere near that bad but my sister is horrified by the idea that she could be touched by age. She’s very cool and incredibly fashionable but she is also…well, she’s forty.
“Are you inviting him?” I asked her cautiously. ‘Him’ being my elder brother I detest.
She removed her eyes from the Thomas Sabo catalogue.
“He’s our brother,” she said, “I’ll have to invite him.”
Years ago we decided to send him to yet another rehab centre but this one promised to be quite different; it was staffed by Christians and their faith made them immune to the toxic presence of my brother. I’d watched the Infomercial DVD in growing horror. I wasn’t terrified because of their innate goodness – they’d had a lot of success in helping addicts – but they looked so happy and peaceful. I knew we couldn’t send ‘Him’ down there because he’d obliterate the place. He’d be running it in days and all the joy of God would flee in his presence. The last I heard he was living in another town. The idea of having to see him at my beloved sister’s party is a depressing one.
I might wear my roller skates to the party!
Until Next Time…
That’s the end of my latest diary entry. I’m off to listen to The Donnas