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.
A friend of mine asked how come I was getting so mindfucked with theology while working on a script advocating gay marriage. He said it was purely a civil rights issue and mentioned something about my godless heart burning in hell but I was too busy thinking about gay honeymoons to respond properly.
People have commented on the dreadful amount of “erms” and “ums” in that last video. Also, analytics have shown that few viewers were willing to sit through ten minutes of rambling; so I’ve edited the main point down to ten seconds.
I’m about to start #2. It’ll be more fun; for me at least because it involves rum.
I decided to try one of these vlog things; me talking instead of you making the effort to turn words on a screen into a voice in your brain. It makes a change, plus you get to see the shapes I can make with my massive face.
Childless women in their thirties staying in bed until the mid-afternoon, reading their first book by Schopenhauer, Seneca or Montaigne – contemplating the apathy with which they regard their own mortality over the first gin of the afternoon and rubbing one out before the news kills the passion – these are the kinds of women you don’t seem to meet dating online.