Living Dangerously

I have been neglecting this page terribly, and look set to continue a bit longer due to NaNoWriMo. I know, I am a terrible person; but undoubtedly I will be punished for these transgressions in the next life by being a vowel key on a massive old fashioned typewriter of pain. Or something.

However, in the back of my mind I have a plan, and I will now impart this plan to you to see what you think. My thought is, to write a weekly column on this here page. For you see, I recently did an interview for The Clear Minded Creative during which I was reminded of my long held ambition to have my own column in the style of Charlie Brooker, Caitlin Moran, Lucy Mangan, or myriad other broadsheet writers, and I noticed I have not been chasing this dream with appropriate chutzpah.

It wasn't because I'd forgotten so much as because I allowed other things to get in the way, but no more!

After all I need to practice; it's a competitive sort of market and I'm not getting any younger, me knees aren't what they were. So, I am aiming to start a weekly column on here starting Monday. It will likely be about something I see on Twitter, around 500 words a time (maybe a bit longer) and hopefully it'll be hilarious. So if you could greet it with rapturous applause that'd be fab.

OK cool, now have a photo of the sort of book I aspire to write some day:

Anyone Still Here?

Hello, patient readers. Several apologies for neglecting this blog for an entire month, I am most embarrassed about it - especially after going down to one post a week, which ought to be pretty manageable.

The excuse, as you might expect, is the 12 Books in 12 Months blog, which I have been comparatively successful in updating every day should you be interested... there's stuff about the Fringe and Edinburgh Book Festivals, an interview with Mr Gum author Andy Stanton, and this weekend I'm embarking on THE GREAT KINDLE CHALLENGE where I read a book or two on the kindle to see if it can turn my head away from traditional print.

Other than that I have been bumbling away as usual, not quite managing to fit in all the things I want to do but getting around to some of them in a haphazard kind of way. Last week I actually made myself a timetable, which I mostly ignored, but getting so close to that level of organisation was pretty exciting. Today I hope to tidy up a bit and perhaps timetable next week in a more efficient manner. Said timetable will include scheduling a post on here, although I'm not sure what about yet - I will cross that bridge when I come to it.

Although having said that, maybe you can help. If you would like to read some more beauty blogging in September, let me know in the comments - but if you found that dull and crappy (the hair one wasn't very inspired, I know) also let me know that too. I will take your thoughts into consideration, then do whatever the hell I want.

In the meantime if you want to hear from me on a properly regular basis (yo), click on 12 Books in 12 Months. September's genre might be entertaining because it is humour, which is a wide ranging and frightening choice. I haven't started the book yet, but I'm thinking in terms of a novelisation of Confessions of a Jobless Graduate... Some of you may remember that once upon a time I was going to blog about that for The Skinny, but it never quite happened. I believe it's high time The Unusual Handyman was immortalised in fiction.

Festival Chic

Last week, Captain Tact and I went to Latitude Festival in Suffolk. You can read a summary of what we saw there on the 12 books in 12 months blog, but over this way I will of course be discussing our attempts at festival chic.

Now, there's no real point in trying to look good at a festival - particularly not a wet one, which this was. Your hair will go disgusting, and however many wet wipes you use there'll still be at least one patch of mud you miss.

The best thing to do is to ensure you are warm and dry, and that your alcohol intake is sufficient to keep your mood sunny enough to counteract the weather.

To this end, might I present the Peter Storm kag in a bag - a model boasting comically short sleeves and a hood that falls down over your eyes and obscures any pesky bands from view. Fabulous.


Here we are in our waterproofs about to enjoy Suede (yeah I know, remember Suede?!) as the tempest re-groups behind us. Aren't we gorgeous. No? Have a cider and think about that some more.

The great thing about waterproofs (other than their inherent sexiness) is of course the noise the material makes whenever you have the audacity to move. That's brilliant, isn't it. And because it was so wet, some people had fashioned binbag ponchos to wear over the top of their existing macs. They sounded positively musical. In a crap way.

Looking back at this picture, it seems clear we were experiencing a certain level of bin bag envy. Next time, maybe.





Then there was the footwear situation. I had to buy wellies, on account of not being one of nature's welly owners. This is because my calves are too fat - you'll notice I had to fold them down, and even then I ended up with a big welt in the back of my leg. Not ideal, yet a problem experienced by all women I know. Somebody should do something.


Still, at least we weren't this guy. Why is it that some people, as soon as they get near a festival, feel impelled to wear their pyjamas outside and purchase a variety of silly hats? Several people were sporting Viking helmets, mohawk wigs, and various other headgear you'd never wear outside a festival context. Or in one, arguably... but that might just be me.

It's probably related to holiday high spirits, but these items are sold at vastly inflated prices (ooh, a hand felted pixie hat for only £15! The pixies usually pay £20 a pop, I must have it!) only to be left blowing around the empty campsite on Monday morning. Which is ironic cause Latitude is big on recycling and reducing your carbon footprint and so on - the bulk of this shite is not biodegradable. I guess birds could make nests out of some of it, but that's my optimism shining through.

It was nice to have a break, but thank goodness we are back to normality where I can carry on being my naturally stylish (and more crucially, clean) self.

Spoilers...

Sorry for the silence, I've been doing an awful lot of things. See Confessions of a Jobless Graduate and 12 Books in 12 Months for more specific information.

I do have a couple of posts in the pipeline, and tomorrow I might even have time to type them up and schedule them! But now I've said that, I almost certainly won't do it.

Just to whet your appetite, one is a final 'glad game' about the joys of conflicting advice. A journo recently informed me that by volunteering for so many hyperlocal websites (which I've done partly to build up my portfolio and partly because I think Edinburgh is a bit good and people ought to be told) I have devalued my work. If I don't charge for it then why would anyone ever pay me?

I think there is a fundamental misunderstanding of hyperlocal there, frankly.

The other thing I have to write about because it is pissing me off royally, but not right now because I'll get all worked up and won't be able to sleep, is the fact that Guardian Edinburgh is going to be closed down at the end of May, along with the other hyperlocal sites. I think it's a ridiculous thing to do, and will tell you for why - whether you like it or not.

In the meantime, though, click this cute dragon to 'like' 12 Books in 12 Months on Facebook. I want to get to 200 by the end of May. If you help, I'll reward you with a mystery prize...

Glad Game - Spam

An aside about spam.

This relates to the glad game in the sense that when I'm deleting spam comments from the Ten Tracks blog, it takes ages because it has to be done manually, which is soul destroying... but you probably know that I don't mind it as a general rule, because it quite often makes me laugh.



The bits that aren't me are Monty Python - I hope it's obvious which parts those are.

Glad Game - Waking Up When You Don't Have To

On Saturday, I set my alarm for 10:30am.

For no very good reason, I proceeded to wake up at 8.34am, as alert as a child on Christmas morn. And in spite of really needing to catch up on missed zee’s (as Sesame Street might call them), I couldn’t get back to sleep.

I lay there, eyes shut, trying to remember what I had been dreaming about, to no avail. Not that that would have helped, necessarily – the last dream I remember involved my dad having an in-depth conversation with his pet rabbit about why if wouldn’t get out of its hutch. I don’t think my dad has ever had a pet rabbit, much less an agoraphobic one.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Captain Tact enquired, aware that the amber nectar is often as good a remedy as any to my ills.

“No,” I wailed, prostrating myself a melodramatically amongst the covers as was the style at the time, “I’m going to try and go back to sleep.”

About ten minutes later, I sheepishly went through and made my own.

Waking up before the alarm goes leaves me feeling morally and spiritually bereft. How can you possibly enjoy anything at all if you haven’t had at least 8 hours in bed?!

Lately I’ve only been getting 6 or 7 hours a night during the week due to all the writing. This is OK up to a point, but means that a lie-in at the weekend is imperative for my mental wellbeing. Unfortunately that isn’t always possible due to prior engagements, and adding self-sabotage to the mix is not the plan I had.

It annoyed me particularly on this occasion because I knew I wasn’t going to be back in bed for any length of time for another 36 hours. I had Stuff To Do during the day, and was spending the evening at the Cameo Night of Horror; scheduled to run from 11pm on Saturday till about 8am Sunday morning. Then I was going over to Fife for a picnic with my family.

I was preemptively tired by the prospect, and very annoyed with my body for its nonsense.

The positive side, of course, was that I got a couple of thousand words done for book 4 of 12 Books in 12 Months that I otherwise might not have managed. I must grudgingly concede that it can be quite a good feeling to randomly gain two hours to get on with stuff. There again, those two hours might’ve come in handy during Terror at the Opera, a film by turns confusing, pretentious, and dull; but impossible to sleep through because the soundtrack is so loud it makes your ear canals hurt.

Still, concentrating on the glad aspect – no sleep = more words. Hooray!

Glad Game - Bird Poo

Yesterday I was sitting in the Botanic Gardens, enjoying the sunshine, when a pigeon crapped right on my head. Right on it. All over my lovely naturally sun-dried curls. And I didn't have any hankies or anything, so I had to try and claw it out of there using a Tesco bag. I don't know what that bird had been eating, but it was nasty.

So what is there to be glad about in this situation?

According to the rules of the game, I'm not allowed to say anything like 'one day that pigeon will be DEAD, and get its comeuppance in the circle of hell specially reserved for poultry with watery bowels.'

It needs to be more along the lines of 'according to a superstition made up by someone who clearly got pooed on a lot, birds doing their business on your head is meant to be good luck.' It's often associated with wealth, in fact. Therefore this incident must be indicative of the fact that I'm going to win the lottery next weekend.

I'll let you know.

In other news, I've decided to post audio snippets of Book 4 on 12 Books in 12 Months, if you are interested in having a listen.

My Day

Today I have mostly been trying to persuade people to 'like' 12 Books in 12 Months on Facebook.

I don't really know why, to be honest. I get weekly emails from King Zuckerberg in his gold plated tree house sniping away about the fact that the page use is down and nobody likes me and I'd be as well giving up because I'm never going to go back and finish these books anyway... but I don't really pay much attention to those.

However, the slightly obsessive stat freak within would quite like the number of 'likers' to increase.

In case you don't know what I'm talking about, if you click the button to 'like' a page on Facebook, whenever a link or something is posted on that page it then appears in your stalkerfeed. (Or FB homepage, if you will.) I only update the 12 Books in 12 Months page a couple of times a week, because I don't want to be the annoying spammer who everyone hates. But I think perhaps I ought to up the ante a little bit because apparently there are still quite a few people I am ostensibly friends with who remain completely oblivious to the project.

Obviously the fact that someone 'likes' the page doesn't mean they are planning to interact with it any further than that, say by making suggestions. Still, they might mention it to other people who will, and at least that way word may spread. Which would be quite good.

So, the aim is to get to 100 'likes' by 10pm, and I will plug any pages or projects that these new likers would like me to do. It's now 8.50pm and there are 8 'likes' to go before I hit the target.

Can it be done?

Ask me again in an hour and ten minutes.

Stuff To Do

I have agreed to dedicate a couple of hours a week to doing regular blog posts and other admin type stuff for Ten Tracks, which is a music site where you can download lots of shiny local music for low low prices. And having just gone back to work 4 days a week, the slightly ad hoc approach to writing that I adopted over the last couple of months is not going to cut the mustard. So I made a list of the minimum amount of stuff I want to be doing on a monthly basis, at least until I finish the temp job in July. At which point I might take on more...

3 posts a week here on Daddy Long Legs
3 posts a week on 12 Books in 12 Months
1 proper article a week on Jobless Graduate
1 post a week for Ten Tracks
1 post a fortnight for Mslexia
Minimum 1 article a fortnight (the opposite fortnight!) for The Edinburgh Reporter
Minimum 1 article a month for IWeTwoThree
1 article a month for Broughton Spurtle (Oot)
1/2 a month for the Guardian / STV local

All of which is in addition to a daily 2000 words or so of my 12 Books in 12 Months. And hopefully the odd pitch for paid writing work. And I'm the marketing person for Dandy Highwaymen, which is a traveling theatre company being set up by my very talented sister over the next few months.

At what point does the adage 'spreading yourself too thin' apply?!

Apologies..

.. for the week of silence. After the three days of solid writing I started a new job, which was interspersed with more writing of articles and book 2 of 12 books in 12 months - this didn't leave a huge amount of time for blogging.

I will be better organised from now on, but in lieu of a proper post on this occasion you might want to have a look at a cute picture. Or failing that, read about Nicola Morgan's alternative World Book Night campaign, which I think is a really good idea.

Local News For Local People

I may live in Edinburgh now, but this wasn't always the case. Once upon a happenstance, before I lost my youthful good looks to become a cynical city slicker, twas the simple town of Blairgowrie that I called home.

The other week, I went back to the 'gowrie to house sit for my parents, who had absconded to the late 1950s (or Cuba, as it is also known). It seemed like a good opportunity to sit and write the first of those 12 books in 12 months, un-impinged by the trappings of metropolitan life.

Nice idea, but of course it didn't work. My folks have all the good TV channels, for one thing. And for another, Blairgowrie is home to some of the best journalism known to man. I ask you, dear reader, how could I possibly concentrate on my own work once I heard of the plight of the Blairgowrie Beavers?!!



For your information, Eric the Ericht Beaver - so called because he was found in the River Ericht, do you see? That's a river in Blairgowrie - was REMOVED from said river and evilly IMPRISONED (they genuinely used the word 'imprisoned' in the article) by Edinburgh Zoo. And some people got peeved and decided to get Eric back, so there was a dramatic prison break which you undoubtedly heard about in Reporting Scotland. Except not really. But what did happen was that the intrepid reporters at the Blairie threw their full weight behind the Scottish Wild Beaver Group's campaign against the trapping of beavers on local rivers.

Which is great and everything, but one of the ways they are doing this is by having T-Shirts made with the slogan HANDS OFF OUR BEAVERS.

Seriously?! Are they genuinely that far behind in terms of modern slang? How has NOBODY told them what a ridiculous thing that is to put on a T-Shirt?

Having said that, I'll be buying at least three.



P.S. For a slightly less incredulous look at the actual issue, see Suitably Despairing.

The River City Blog #4 and #5

I'll be honest with you, I missed a couple of episodes of River City whilst I was writing Caligula's Blog. And because I'm the only viewer, the BBC only has one episode up on iPlayer at a time, so I missed my opportunities to catch up.

As far as I can gather, the Burns Night episode (which should have formed the basis of blog #4) featured DI Fraser out of Taggart guest starring as an MSP or something. He accidentally offended Scarlett by thinking she had breast cancer rather than ovarian, so she shouted at him, went back to work, and celebrated her re-found independence by getting her husband to help shave her head. I know that's what I'd do in her situation.

Meanwhile angry soldier Leo is addicted to prescription drugs, so stole Leyla's keys in order to get some more from the GP Surgery; and mad Ruth is still being mad and husband Andy (who she only married about three months ago) will almost definitely leave her for a new life in Dubai next time cause he can't cope with all the crazy. I empathise to a degree - she is awful. But you ought to have checked that out before you got hitched, fool.

I am sort of glad I missed last week's (#5), because it looks as though they tried to get Ruth the sympathy vote, and frankly she's about as empathetic as the EDL. Andy accepted the job in Dubai, to which her response was to declare their marriage over in order to make him stay. He called her bluff, she regretted it but was slightly too late in trying to fix things, there was soul searching, and FINALLY some other people noticed that she's unhinged.

However, as if making up for lost time, they took it too far the other way and had her sectioned for drugging her little girl. She may be irritating but she hasn't been doing that - the missing drugs are being taken by AWOL soldier and general reprobate Leo. Which all sounds quite harrowing, so to cheer things up there was also a subplot where Wee Boab tried to get Robbie the Big Gay Hairdresser in trouble with Deek by hiding an MP3 player...

Yeah, fair play BBC, leaving it up for as long as a week is above and beyond the call of duty.

Comedian Makes Child Cry

The article below was written for this site here. You should like it on Facebook, follow it on Twitter, then forget all about it as is your wont.

In other news, at midnight last night I completed a first draft of my first book for 12 Books in 12 Months, and Let's Get Lyrical kicks off in earnest today so there's some chat about long haired American pop group Hanson on my other blog.

The usually optimistic worldview of our great British nation was severely tested today when renowned biped Michael McIntyre made a small child cry in front of a live audience.

The child, aged 9, went on so-called television show Britain’s Got Talent to deliver a spectacularly unfunny comedy routine.

McIntyre reportedly buzzed him out with a string of abuse that included comments such as, “Bet your mother wishes she’d had that abortion now!” and, “I’ve seen funnier war crimes!”

His unkind words prompted a fierce response from heavily medicated co-host David “Jump In My Car” Hasselhoff, who leapt out of his seat and punched McIntyre in the mouth before proclaiming the whimpering child the best darn comedian since Chevy Chase.
All of which happened before said kid had cracked any jokes.

OK, so I’m exaggerating. What actually happened was that McIntyre asked the child who his favourite comedian was, got the response ‘Harry Hill’, and McIntyre buzzed him (the Britain’s Got Talent way of telling you to fuck the fuck off). Hilariously, the child then descended into floods of tears.

Even though this might be the funniest thing McIntyre has ever done, he is now backpedaling furiously to apologise for the joke. Supposedly it’s inappropriate to treat children in this way – as if they were nothing more than tiny adults, I mean. Because we all know the best way to teach kids things is actually to patronize and talk down to them.

If that child were 19 rather than 9, McIntyre’s joke would probably have got a huge laugh. But just because he is quite short and does not yet know his times tables, it’s been labeled as tantamount to abuse. Frankly, if this kid wants to be a stand up, he’s going to have to learn to take a joke - however weak it may be.

He’s also going to need a method of dealing with hecklers that doesn’t involve crying.

Do You Take This Pie...

Those of you who use Facebook will probably be aware of its obsession with targetted advertising, which surely only has limited success. Basically all girls I know are so used to being told about various wedding services (tick tock ladies, if you don't marry soon it might never happen and then where'll you be?) that it doesn't really bother them anymore.

Today, though, FB caught my attention by insisting I have a look at Rubenesque Bridal, "Scotland's only dedicated bridal boutique for the curvaceous woman."

How does it know I'm a size 16+? (Which I'm not, of course, I'm like size... zero. Ahem.)

And, why did it decide as soon as I graduated from university that I'd be desperate to get married ASAP? For a supposedly modern means of communication it takes a very 1950s approach to gender roles.

Actually in fairness, that one might be because I've been 'engaged' to one of my mates on there for about five years, and the bots can't tell the difference between real and fake relationships. Yet. But still, when, where and if I tie the knot is not going to be determined by social networking.

There again, the other thing they keep throwing at me is a free screening of Trainspotting at the Royal Scottish Academy, so maybe they do know me quite well after all. *starts sketching centrepieces*

For other items written by me today, see here for chat about the poetical genius of Sisqo, and here for a mild response to an hysterical article about the British government's gay agenda. I've also conducted a couple of interviews for the Edinburgh Reporter which I am in the process of writing up, and tonight I'll do some more Caligula for 12 Books in 12 Months. Productive.

Links

Just to keep you up to date with all my wheelings and dealings, here's a post about my average writing day over on 12 Books in 12 Months.

Also on Confessions of a Jobless Graduate I'm going to be blogging about song lyrics on a daily basis in honour of the Let's Get Lyrical campaign, an idea from UNESCO to get people talking about reading in 2011. So have a look, leave a comment, or don't.

True Romance

Oi, Hotmail spam filter! What do you mean by junking this? She could be my one true love!

'My Dearest,

I am very happy for your reply to my mail despite your busy schedules.'

I didn't email you, but OK.

'How was your night over there in your country,i believe you had a nice night rest and that the atmosphere over there in your country is very nice today? Mine was a little bit warm over here in Dakar Senegal.'

Cold. It's winter in Edinburgh.

'My name is Bella Garang,'

Nice to meet you, I suppose.

'23 years old but age doesn't matter in a real relationship,so i am comfortable with your age,'

Oi! I'm 25!

'My hobbies are Reading,traveling Listening to good jokes also my likes are obedient,Honest,sincerity,truth and my dislikes are lie,dishonest,envy,and betrayal.'

Huh. My dislikes are people not bothering to proof read what they're written.

'I am from Southern Region of Sudan,5.7ft tall,dark in complexion single,(never married ) and presently, i am residing here in Dakar as a result of the civil war that was fought in my country some years ago.'

Hey, I'm 5'7" and never been married! Maybe we should be buds! Oh, but I don't have much civil war chat though. Could always give you stuff about the act of union...

'My late father Dr John Garang was the greatest Sudanese politician in history. A Christian and a southern Sudanese from the Dinka tribe, and also the First vice president of Southern Sudan in Northeastern Africa in July 9, 2005.'

As the greatest Sudanese politician in history I guess he didn't need to be punctual. Arf. But in all seriousness, he's a real guy. Apparently survived by a widow, also a Sudanese politician, and six children.

'He was involved in the Helicopter Crash on July 30 2005 that resulted his Death due to the pilot error'

Seems to be true, according to Wikipedia. Do you use Wikipedia, Bella?

'and My late Mother died in the civil war. During the death of my father, there is civil war going on radically that resulted my relocating to save my soul with the help of red Cross'

OK... sounds harrowing. So your mother wasn't Dr Garang's wife, then? Rebecca Nyandeng De Mabior? Cause as discussed, she is still alive.

'It was only me that is alive now and I managed to make my way to a near by country Senegal where i am leaving now as a refugee under a Reverend father's care and i am using the computer in his office to send these messages to you.'

Wow. Cheers for thinking of me, Bella, you complete stranger you. Why not go to one of your six half-brothers or sisters, though?

'My dear, I came in the site to search for love and care which I have not gotten for a very long time since I lost my family members.'

What site? Hotmail?

'I hereby believe that in time to come you will be my side and I will show you unreserved love and respect through out my time .'

Thanks very much.

'Dear, I want to know more about you, your real name, Your real country, your age, your hobbies and what you are doing presently.'

Pretty sure you could get all of that through my hotmail profile, hen. Except for what I am doing right now, which is a little bit creepy sounding if you don't mind my saying. Anyway, someone has not done their research.

'I have attached my pictures here for you to know me very well. In my next mail I will tell you more about myself. I wait your reply with impatience.
Yours Bella'

Can't believe I nearly missed my opportunity with this lovely girl by not checking my junk mail folder. I have of course emailed her with pictures of myself, my full home address, bank details, information about 12 books in 12 months, etc. Captain Tact will be a bit put out, but he'll get over it eventually. This is a case of the true love, after all.

A Bastion Club Novel Review

In between researching the life of Caligula and watching various box sets, since Christmas I have sporadically engaged myself in the task of reading a fairly terrible historical romance by biochemist turned author Stephanie Laurens.

It's called Captain Jack's Woman, and if you're thinking of reading it at any point I suggest you stop reading this post now because there are going to be spoilers.

The story is simple enough. It is 1811, Norfolk, Engerland. A beautiful but headstrong girl returns to her childhood home, having failed to ensnare a husband in London. She disguises herself as a boy and becomes leader of a gang of smugglers. She meets the leader of a rival smuggling gang who happens to be the Lord next door. She doesn't know that, because he too is in disguise. So he can catch some French spies, since you asked. Their gangs join forces. He finds out she is a woman, although he doesn't know she is of his class, and she finds out he is a man, which mightn't be as bad as she previously thought. They fall madly in lust, have sex on a table, and eventually discover that they are the same class and can get married. Hooray!

But wait! There's still about a third of the book to go. For whilst they are married, they still do not fully understand one another. Yawn. So, they have some misunderstandings and some more sex, and eventually he realises she is not merely his wife - she is his friend. Meanwhile she comes to understand that he doesn't involve her in smuggling type activities not because he wants to control her, but because he doesn't want her to die. Which was fairly obvious, given she got herself shot almost immediately after he discovered her true identity.

My problems with this book are twofold. The first issue is that it is overlong - Laurens has got to the point where she's quite a well established romance author so they no longer edit her as stringently as they should. If you've ever wondered how many times is too many for a horse to be rubbed down in one chapter, I am here to confirm that four is right out.

The second issue I have is that heroine Kit is perceived as a scandalously headstrong character by everyone - herself, her husband, family, servants, friends and acquaintances - yet when she goes to tell him something, he only needs to kiss her and she forgets how to speak. I mean literally, cannot form words anymore. Which is mimsy as fuck, frankly. She doesn't once invoke the literary precedent of her red hair and give him a slap for behaving inappropriately, she merely claims to be seething inwardly - then forgets as soon as he forces his tongue between her teeth in a disconcertingly rapey manner.

I will concede that romantic heroines aren't famous for their feminist principles. But this woman's inner monologue is completely at odds with her behaviour, which made her character development feel disjointed and at times clunky. Captain Jack is reassuringly misogynistic and mostly does what you'd expect, so at least he fits into the action more easily.

There are some pretty torrid sex scenes in there, though, which are good for a laugh. Although I'm not convinced that "empurpled" is a proper word. And amusing though these passages are, they don't help my anxiety about April, when I am supposed to be writing a romance for 12 Books in 12 Months. I can't shake the feeling that if I end up needing to write a sex scene, I'll want to put jokes in. I'll probably end up with a satirical indictment of the fact that true romance does not exist in reality and several oblique references to social networking.

Maybe I should email Stephanie for help.

Yarn Thief

A fellow writer brought a short story competition to my attention via her blog, so now rather than writing Caligula's Blog for the 12 Books in 12 Months project (which you can now 'like' on facebook, by the way), I have turned my attention to idly bashing out nonsensical flash fiction. I've written three 100 word stories in the past half hour. Not the plan I had, but it might be good in terms of updating here...

“LOVE KNITTING?!” The Facebook sidebar silently screams. “SHOW IT OFF WITH T-SHIRTS, STICKERS AND MUGS!”

Surely the best way to showcase my passion is to be seen about town, needles and wool in hand?

I journey forth, lugging a bag of odds and ends I intend to fashion into a scarf. A ball of dusky orange falls from the pile and rolls slowly down the hill, stopping at the feet of an OAP. She picks it up, waves her thanks, and disappears.

Barely discernable from this distance, her t-shirt reads, “I HEART KNITTING.”

Can’t believe it. Bitch stole my yarn.

Blardy Stewdarnts

I was interviewed by STV journalist Cara Sulieman about my 12 Books in 12 Months project yesterday, and her report is here. Whilst looking at that, however, my eye was caught by the arguably far more interesting headline story on the Edinburgh and East page, namely "Pie thrown at Scotland's only Conservative MP."

The headline alone is brilliant. But how Scottish is the sentiment?! We don't fling rotting fruit and veg at our hate figures, oh no. We throw PIES. This one was probably bought at the end of a night out, deep fried in batter... discarded when the owner realised they weren't that drunk, and picked up in the morning as a hangover cure on the way to the protest.

Or perhaps not. To my utter delight, the article went on to say that this incident took place in ye olde university town of St Andrews. Ancient, organic, so-posh-nobody-local-can-afford-to-live-within-a-ten-mile-radius St Andrews! Home to some very Conservative people, certainly within the student population (who account for a third of residents). Presumably they were over at Fife Park* harassing poor people and were unable to come to Mr Mundell's aid on this occasion. Tellingly the piece continues, "It is not known who threw the pastry."

That's the St Andrews I lived in for four years. They don't throw pies, they throw pastries. OooOOooOOoo, hark at them.

Damn, I miss the cut and thrust of student debate. Although to my eternal regret, nobody threw baked goods at any MPs when I was there.

*Fife Park is one of the only two student halls of residence that falls somewhere near the line of affordable housing provided by The University of St Andrews. The walls are made of paper and it always smells of supernoodles. But it's OK, they're knocking it down and replacing it with the most expensive flats in creation, to encourage more princes to live there.

No Use Crying Over Split Infinitives

New Year's Resolutions are rubbish, aren't they.

Mostly everyone has a vague notion that they'll eat less crap and exercise more. Maybe they'll also be a bit tidier. This falls apart either:
a) instantly, when you awake at 1pm on New Year's Day and realise it is the time for a Doctor Who marathon and piles of crisps, or:
b) more gradually over the first few weeks of the year as you remember that January is horrible and exercise makes you feel sad.

But we do it anyway, because it's nice to aspire to something less obese and poor-skinned than we are currently.

My New Year's Resolution, aside from the whole writing 12 books thing, is to get paid for my words.

I write a lot, about a variety of things, and some of it's not half bad. I do local news, fiction, humour, film and music reviews, comics, comment pieces and of course I blog. I've had stuff published in lots of places this year, working full time in unrelated jobs as I went. I've written for Outlook (City of Edinburgh Council newspaper), The Link (South Edinburgh newsletter), Tales of One City (the library services blog), The Edinburgh Reporter (hyperlocal news), The Broughton Spurtle (hyper-hyperlocal news), The Chutney Exhibition (comedy), Brikolage (arts), Hecklerspray (gossip), Billygean (blog) and have secured a blogging job with The Skinny's new website - although nobody knows when that's actually going to go live. That's not bad going.

There again it occurred to me this year that I've been working away on a generic concept of 'getting as much experience as possible' for ten years now. This isn't as bad as it sounds; I started writing for the local paper at the age of 15. Over that period I have made an eye-watering forty-five of your Scottish pounds.

I don't do this because I have some kind of martyr complex. Offering my services for free is the only way I know of gaining that all important yet ill defined 'experience' craved by prospective employers. It's also the only way I know I'm going to see my name in print, which is narcissism, if anything.

There is an argument that citizen journalism and young folk like me trying to get an 'in' are destroying the profession, as if the advent of the internet hadn't already given print media in its entirety a severe bollocking. The argument goes along the lines that seasoned professionals are being made redundant all the time in favour of younger, cheaper hacks who will do the same job for half the price, and the quality of the output suffers as a result.

Frankly - naively, perhaps? - I think good writing shines through. I am more likely to read - and pay for - an article on something that doesn't interest me if it's well written. Given the choice, an editor is surely going to use something that has been properly researched and written to industry standard? Isn't it in their best interest to print readable content?

Yes, being made redundant is beyond crap, but in a profession like journalism it's hardly the end. There's a living to be made in freelancing, and you've already got the contacts, years of experience and knowledge. Do you know what young freelancers like me have? Enthusiasm, and Twitter. I can't pitch an article to an editor who I know likes me, or an old mate I used to work with on such and such a paper, because I only just finished university, and I didn't do a journalism course when I was there. Instead, I have to try and second guess total strangers who universally ignore me. (Being ignored is far more irritating than being rejected and for all you know it might be your own fault - you could be writing to the wrong person because people change jobs and email addresses all the time.)

But so what. That's how things go. And for every older hack made redundant, and every bright young thing who did the MA at Napier and is now on the Evening News for a starting salary of 16k, there are hundreds of people who never make it at all. Some of them are undoubtedly very good writers. Better than the ones who make it, probably. I can only surmise that they aren't tenacious enough, however tenacious that may be.

Perhaps 2011 is the year I will find out.