Monday, October 22, 2007
Cover to cover
Above, the cover for Best New Erotica 07, which I'm still very chuffed to have a story in. (Undercover, first published at Clean Sheets.) Out later this year, I think.
Meanwhile, forgive the infrequent and taciturn entries here.
I'm struck dumb, lately, more and more. Writing, yes, but it's as though the constant chittering of my head won't spill out my mouth, only my fingers. Only in fiction. I worry at a problem, an issue, an opinion, until I agree with every damn side and any verdict is meaningless. I don't know what I think about anything any more. Apart from that I think PJ Harvey is my favourite musician. Yes. And that I can't stop eating artichokes in oil.
So anyway, instead of thinking I'm writing. I think this is positive. Unfortunate that's there's even less certainty in writing - like stepping on wet stones, slipping and falling every hundred words. I'm training myself to suspend disbelief long enough to finish a story before the swarms of doubt and implication gather and cloud the air and obstruct what I was trying to see (- a ludicrous story about dentists and old ladies with binoculars, for fuck's sake, it's not Tolstoy) or at least ride with the uncertainties. Surfing the tangents. Something.
- includes 'The Art of Fucking', from Sex with Strangers, Black Lace. And the mysterious floating black bra of doom, apparently.
Actually maybe Mark E Smith is my favourite musician. Or Lou Reed. Do you think a jar of artichokes a day could be bad for you?