Self ePublishing

It’s time.

I started writing about 12 years ago – which translates to approximately 1.5 years of writing, and 10.5 of furious and intense procrastination, masturbation and staring out of windows, waiting for fiction to assemble itself on the screen before me, and playing tower defence flash games when it did not.

In this time I’ve manage to squeeze from my creative sphincter four full, and two half novels; a smattering of short stories, and two depressing poems. Two of these novels were sent off to the Club of Literary Agents, where they got drunk, and nobody asked them to dance, and they came back home at the end of the evening and had a wank and cried themselves to sleep. The others just got stuck having pre-club drinks at the Need-Another-Redraft bar.

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The Tale of the Mysterious Bong

I was lying in bed the other night, working out exactly how I would melt the West Antarctic Ice Sheet to drown the low-lying areas of the world if I were a supervillain, when my musings were interrupted by a bong.

By this, I don’t mean that an oversized piece of drug paraphernalia flew through my window on smokey wings of purple haze and struck me on the head, saving coast-dwellers around the globe from getting their socks wet – but that something, somewhere, went bong.

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Doors

Yesterday I left the flat to go job hunting. Everybody goes about this arduous activity in different ways, but for me this involved walking down the street with my hands in my pockets, kicking a stone along, and wishing that I had a treehouse.

Every so often I would look in a shop window to see if there were any signs advertising vacancies for in-store writer wannabes, bed testers, or beer tasters – but there weren’t any.

I did a circuit of the library and the town’s two bookshops, hoping to see signs stating they needed someone to check the plots – but there weren’t of those either. My final option was the Job Centre, but that was just depressing, so I did the bookshop-library-bookshop circuit another couple of times in case a sign had gone up in the meantime.

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Napping

If there’s one thing I have in common with Miss-Matic, Miss-Matic’s mother, and our cat – who adopted Miss-Matic’s mother only to be subsequently adopted by Miss-Matic and I under the somewhat false pretense that we would be entirely responsible for its residency, and who still lives with Miss-Matic’s mother several years later and is most definitely still our cat despite appearances and quite possibly legal definitions to the contrary – it is that we all like to take naps.

As we step into a brand new year it is important to set one’s goals and agendas up front – this is why we make New Year’s Resolutions after all – and so I have decided to spend most of 2013 missing 2013 by napping as frequently and lengthily as possible.

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Arts ‘n’ Crafts

Making Spiders

 

I hate spiders. They creep me the fuck out. Unfortunately I’m working on a super-secret project which entailed making little spiders out of wire. It took me a while to figure out how to make these little bastards, so there are quite a few hanging around the flat.

Here’s one waiting to jump on my head.

Every so often I will encounter one of these – glimpse it from the corner of my eye, or knock one off the arm of the sofa onto my leg or something. And every single time my heart does somersaults, sending its pulse off for a short weekend break by the sea until I finally realise it’s only one of my creations.

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Nasal Assault

On TV shows, and in a lot of movies, people have things that nobody has in real life.

For instance, on TV, some guy comes home from work, opens the fridge and gets out a beer. But nobody has a fridge full of beer waiting for them when they come home from work. Because in real life they’ve already drunk all the beer.

Another example is horses. I’ve seen loads of TV shows where people have horses. But in real life people don’t have horses. Where would they keep them while they are at work? In the bicycle rack? In designated parking spots? In a little paddock by the fax machine and the photocopier? No. It’s just fiction.

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The Festive Spirit

One Sunday every month, in a small English town somewhere south of Manchester, market stalls spring up along the pedestrianised streets to attract fat-walleted locals from the surrounding area.

On this particular Sunday, in late November, the streets were more crowded than usual. With the orgy of consumerism known as Christmas on the horizon, many bargain-hunters were in town looking for unusual knicknacks, hand-crafted cards or jewelery, or interesting local produce to gift to friends and relatives who would rather just have the money.

Overhead hung sad monochromatic arcs of twinkling lights. A band played instrumental carols outside the town hall, overlooked by a sparsely-decorated tree and dull carven nativity scene. The warm scents of hog roasts, burgers and mulled-wine only served to accentuate the chill in the air.

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A Poker Faced Encounter

Where was I?

Oh yes, floristry.

I currently have no job. This is great. I fill my days with activities of a satisfyingly horizontal nature, trying not to leave the TV on a channel which might show Jeremy Kyle reruns, and working on my latest super-secret project. Life is good. Extremely frugal, but good.

I wasn’t fired from my last job – the one I hated – which is a shame because I’ve never been fired, and I think it might be quite fun… I think it would be like being in a movie where someone gets fired, and being the one who gets fired in it.

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