Long-time readers (ha!) may know that the only thing more consistent than my ability to inconsistently update this blog is my ability to briefly mention doing so in the opening paragraph, somehow insulting my genitals and quickly moving on to larger topics.
The HORRENDOUS/GLORIOUS title pun sway you not, I have no interest in sport politics or sport in general (BIG SURPRISE) perhaps leaning back to my last memory of soccerballfoot being of me, a mere 7 years birthspawned, kicked in the face and breaking what a paramedic would doubt is my nose.
But let’s get to the exciting bits that don’t involve childhood trauma or sexual inadequacy, few as those may be. A rather terrifying amount of things have occurred since we last exchanged letters by the lighthouse and you insisted on that weird thing with the goats. More romantic failures than I’m able to keep count of at this point, relatively par for the course by now.
One example was an ex-wife of a serial killer (but now now don’t you judge or I’ll put you right outside with the fucking Thatcher skulls) who was rather….amazingly well adjusted all things considered. So well that I had my first SECOND DATE in half a decade! A second date that sadly involved me being forced to watch the authorial vomit turned film of 50 Shades, a err “couples chair” for the duration of the only proof authors worse than me can get published and a surprise snog attack from her at the goodnight point. All well and dandy right? BUT NAY MORTALS NAY! 3 days nearing 4, I received a delightful rejection text of “We’re rushing things let’s just be friends k lol”. It was an attempt to let me down easy no doubt, although not a very good one.
BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE! Mere month past another mysterious lass manifested, agreed to meet me and got rather blasted on six glasses of wine and…some sort of ice glass trick I’m not cool enough to understand. Hiccup attacks struck her, I assured I was not ashamed or embarrassed, she had to run but not before a drunken snog attack in the middle of a packed restaurant, followed by a “I CAN’T SEE ANY GUYS” let down message but one day later.
Of course this all points to my FLAWLESS taste in women, but perhaps the bitching of a 28 year old virgin should enter a lull around this line.
IN OTHER NEWS THAT ISN’T REALLY NEWS: My lair was EXTENSIVELY upgraded recently, allowing far more room for human waste disposal and general dominance over me by a population of nudist cats. Slightly more exciting is Usu – my beloved first mass market novel you’ll ignore – is launching on June 23rd. I do get more royalties from digital sales, but I’d still encourage people to waste their income on the physical copies because I’m a sentimental bitch like that.
The pre-release reviews are……………….few for now, but extremely flattering. For those actually curious it should hit most US retail stores, international stores that listen to my publisher’s distributer and of course the last resort of Amazon. I am ironically still waiting for MY copies of the book to arrive. No doubt lost in terrible local mail service, but either way I plan on assaulting local book stores and re-arranging it into slightly less shitty placements, which you of course will do as well.
I spent the past few weeks trying to track down the “inspiration” for Usu, which your floundering grasp of English no doubt suggests is a person, if only because I just said so. A person, a tragedy, an event fully chronicled if you actually explored the site for once but we’re all lazy shits so I’ll digress from digressing. Attempts to track her down were not because I think things can ever work out there, or hold any hope of closing that old wound. Rather because I promised myself I’d write Usu /for her/ 10 years ago almost to the day, and what value of it if the person who needed to read it most never did? Yet my search was fruitless, something I expected given the privacy centric individual. Names, email addresses, even cell numbers and my own abilities to find and creep out women through single photographs (I shouldn’t confess quite how many times I’ve done that however) all fell to silence. Yet perhaps one day the book will still reach who it was originally intended for, I’ve an odd feeling about that – or meningitis. Probably the latter.
Usu became much more than “just that”. Don’t think I wrote some personalised inside joke drivel, those 10 years were spent crafting a world that, while inspired by a personal tragedy, is a creature all of its own. Each night after sniffing my lucky panties goodnight, I would piece together fragments of something stirring inside me. Stitching together wound and word. Ultimately creating something I’m actually proud of for once. Also the YEAR OF EDITING by people completely not me helped quite a bit I suspect, so much so I’m paradoxically grateful to my publisher and editors. It’s surely just business isn’t it? Yet they’ve clearly taken a chance on me, and believe in the story as much as I do.
SHIT GOT DEEP THOSE LAST FEW PARAGRAPHS YO.