97% Shame


That’s right. I finished a good-enough-to-let-someone-else-see-it-draft-of-Cold-Light and emailed it to my agent last week.

Then I went home and laid on my bed and got roaring drunk. Roaring. I didn’t even eat oranges. While I was lying on my bed, odd lines from the novel kept popping into my head. Lines like: ‘Uncle Ron dropped his trousers for a bag of Everton Mints’ and ‘Gordon buys petrol in tiny amounts’ and ‘the biggest eye in the world’. I sort of writhed (wrothe?) about in shame and tried to stop the email leaving my account and suffered a hangover and did it all again the next three or four nights.

Shame. Anxiety. Mainly shame. Some embarrassment. More shame.

My state at the moment is fragile and delicate. I’d like to be a Victorian lady in a white dress, fainting away onto a chaise lounge. I want to flutter my hand at my throat and sigh. Smelling salts. Indisposed. Does indisposed mean anxious and worried and nervy and generally slightly useless in a harmless, attention seeking way? I suppose it could mean bleeding or starving, but I mean attention seekingly crestfallen. Sigh. Swoon.

There are some good things.

A story of mine is forthcoming at Dogmatika. It is called ‘A Bin Bag Full of Compost’ and some of you may have already hear it because I read it at Beepfest, the time I failed to wear the pointy red shoes and displayed a remarkable lack of self control when presented with free bottles of beer.

I am also forthcoming at Sparks – a live lit night in Brighton organised by Jo Horsman. Because Brighton is about as far as it is possible to get from Preston and still be in the same country, Jo is going to read it for me. Thanks Jo!

On top of that, I am forthcoming at two festivals next year. Salford and Edinburgh. 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *