So I thought I’d have a go at this audiobook lark since authors are apparently supposed to play an active role in the promotion of their own work.
I’m considering recording the whole novel but as the rest of the story follows a more traditional narrative written from a woman’s perspective it might sound a bit odd drawled through a shit beard. This chapter here is more a fever dream anyway but what the hell, it’ll give people an idea of what to expect.
I’ve got a good feeling though. I mean it’s this kind of hands-on, can-do attitude that may actually sell a few more goddamn books. If, however, it doesn’t I may actually just rent a caravan on the shores of Loch Ness instead and skag mah wee heid into oblivion before going monster hunting with rocks in my pockets.*
I asked friends to give me a word each so I could build a story from three. It just seemed like a good idea because wine and I’m not saying these wee tales are any good but they made me feel good writing them and that was lovely, thank you. Written in six hours or so, so go easy.
SLUG SUGAR SWEAT
They called it a slug, you know, that round that goes in the gun or whatever. I called it a bullet and they all sniggered, sniggered at how I held it, how the sweat poured down my face as I aimed the cursed thing.
One thing’s for damned sure – ain’t no one gonna be callin’ me sugar no more.
The photo showed a woman whose make-up struggled to cover the years, let alone the rest. She clung proudly to a rough looking teen I assumed was her son. The little treasure himself wore a glare that said, ‘Don’t you dare even think about fucking my mum.’
I’ve been trying to make myself sound professional on LinkedIn but, rather than simply batter myself to death with the keyboard, I decided to have a little fun with the Honors & Awards section. Either the result is the best thing I’ve ever written or I really ought to get some sleep. Continue reading A one hundred word story about work→
What began as All But One of Those Lights in the Sky are Dead and very nearly became Fucking Danish Girls sorted itself out once I’d started pretending to be an unhinged lesbian living in the future. I hope it’s as enjoyable to read as it was to write.
Paperback out now; eBook too (with dodgy looking preview—cheers, Amazon.)
It’s Dave’s birthday tomorrow and there’s a cunningly subtle clue in the title of his latest work as to his age. Since editing poetry is like fashioning a ladder out of live cockroaches, this is pure Dave, his own unadulterated pure self. I just made it look pretty.