I *heart* Lesbian Nurses - The Kick Ass Cool Competition Edition, Plus: Even More Books To Give Away

Ok Kids,

Christmas is over and, like me, you'll be all skint and stuff. So I have a treat for you. Those lovely chaps at Tonto have donated three copies of 9987 to ease your January woes. And, cos I'm dead nice and things I'm going to sign them, and give them away.

For nowt.

Almost.

See, you'll all have stuffed yourselves full of turkey and stuffing and brandy and wine and rum and beer and pudding and cheese and chocolates and anchovies and syrup and milk and biscuits and small, round, vegetables.

So you'll have to do a bit of work for it...

Here's the deal:

In order to win your very own, signed copy, of 9987 (and, if you like, you can have it presented to you at the launch on the 29th Jan - assuming you're coming...) you need to get your typing fingers all stretched out and nimble.

9987 takes place, primarily, in a DVD rental store with the narrator watching people milling about the store, speculating on their lives and judging their movie tastes. The customers play a very important role in the narrators life, and so I think a few more customers might do him some good.

To that end I want you to create a customer. I want you to bring them to life. I want to be sat behind a desk in a DVD rental shop and to watch them wandering the shop. And I want you to do all this in no more than 25 words.

Quite the challenge I know...

But hey, what good will 2009 be without pushing yourself a bit?

Please email your entry to iheartlesbiannurses@gmail.com with your name and address before the closing date of January 17th. 

To keep up to date with 9987 news and events join the facebook group I *heart* Lesbian Nurses.

And remember, 9987 is available here and here and other places too...

Good Luck, and Best Wishes for 2009.

Plus:

Fiona Robyn is also giving her book away here. It's one I've already added to my wish list and I've heard some really really good things about it. It's not out until March but you can be the envy of your friends by nabbing one of the free advance copies she's giving away. 

Go have a look, you won't regret it. Honest.

Baby's First Date, It Seemed To Go Well...

Well well... my first review...

Muchos Gracias to the lovely DJ Kirkby.

My baby might even get a second date...

Don't Read My Book!

New problems. New things to worry about. New things to mark.

It has come to my attention, and why it surprises me I’m not sure, that people have been reading my book.

Now, yes, I know. I had sort of expected this. And yes, I know, it is surely a good thing. I am assuming that these people who are reading the book have paid for the book and so surely riches cannot be far away.

However.

People are reading my book. At work, sat in the staff room, people are telling me how far through they are, asking me questions, and saying nice things. This is all very good, I am aware of this.

But I don’t know how to respond. I find myself changing the subject. I find myself avoiding the staff room.

Because I know what’s coming.

Although it’s all nicely, darkly comic to begin, it goes a bit … well … odd, toward the end. It all goes a bit… twisted… toward the end.

And of course, in all my wisdom, I wrote in the first person.

And so people think that it’s about me.

This worries me.

If you’re one of the few that’s read it, you’ll understand why.

You’ll understand why the thought that my parents might read it terrifies me. You’ll understand why I envision some awkward conversations.

To those of you buying my book: Don't read it, just stroke the cover a bit...

Holding My Book. Dancing A Hula. Misplacing A Student Union.

And so, suddenly, things seem a bit more…

What’s the word?

Real?

Concrete?

Proper Mint? How.

Well yeah, I think that does it. Proper Mint. How.

Because it’s been a very, very exciting week for me.

I’ve struggled, quite a bit really, since I found out I was getting published. I was chuffed, obviously. Grinning secretly between lessons and when no one was looking. I had, whilst writing 9987, planned great things for the day I got THAT phone call, received THAT letter, heard THAT news.

But when it happened I felt, well, I dunno. I was excited, ecstatic, euphoric, erudite (ran out of ‘e’ words there, went for a fairly poor English Teacher joke here…). Strangely though, amongst people, even amongst friends, I felt embarrassed. It just felt too… distant. Too flimsy. Too much time for something to go wrong.

Somewhere in the back of my head a withered, grey haired little man, stroking his beard sadly and sucking at the gaps between his teeth. He was shaking his head a lot and cackling at moments of publishing related excitement.

Even when I saw the cover, I was dubious.

Even when I had the t-shirts sorted, I was reluctant to relax.

I have been widely ridiculed for my inability to answer simple questions about my own book. I have blushed at the mention of Lesbian Nurses.

This week has been different.

This week has been kick ass cool.

This week I’ve felt like a writer.

It all began in the Bath…

I was invited, quite a while ago actually, to go down to Bath Spa University. (MY university. Oh yes. And a very nice one it is too. It has muffin stealing squirrels.) They wanted me to have a chat with some undergrads doing the Creative Studies in English Degree. The one I was doing when I started writing 9987. So I went.

There were some niggling problems. Getting up at five in the morning to catch the plane (oh yes, quite the jetsetter me), the fact that someone had moved the Students Union (and the truly terrifying fact that when I found it at 3:30 no one was drinking. At all. Soft drinks all round. Muchos disturbing, I fear for the students of today.) and of course, a slight problem that the group of students I was expecting to chat to were slightly larger (in number, not stature) and in a slightly more formal setting that I was prepared for.

So I walk into a lecture theatre facing one hundred and eighty people. Some were making notes. Some had laptops out. One may have been sleeping.

Luckily I HAD been drinking in the Students Union.

So. I talked about Prostitutes. I discussed Magical Pub toilets and alternative routes to Narnia. I did a little Hula Dance to demonstrate rhythmic prose. It was most successful.

Oh. And I failed completely, twice, to answer the question – Why was the book originally titled Lesbian Nurses?

Cos I’m mint.

But, hey, it was fun. Then Carrie Etter, poet, lecturer, pint buyer, took me for a drink. Which I felt I needed.

But then.

Then BIG things happened.

Then I got an email.

Then I took a drive.

Then I collected a pile of books.

And all of them,

Each and every single one of them,

Had my name on.

Ten, count’em, ten pristine, ever so pretty and real and strokable and actual copies of my actual book.

They’ve got pages and words in and everything.

And, suddenly, I found it a bit easier to talk about it.

I found it strangely exhilarating to show it to people.

I acted a bit smug, and I think I had a licence to.

I am so very, very chuffed. How.

(and no, before you ask, yo ucan't have one of the ten copies. They've all been given out. The first one to someone who makes me grin. The rest to people of various import after. And Caroline got a special one from the publishers. So sorry kids, all gone.)

Actual News About Actual Stuff Which Is Actually Interesting Rather Than The Stuff I Usually Post Which Is Actually A Bit Crap. Actually.

Right, 

It's been a while I know. But hey, things happen, things distract me and, to be honest, I've had other, more important things on my mind. Count the commas kids - an English teacher you say? Ha! No wonder the kids are all stupid and spraying walls with misspellings and poor punctuation. That's all me that is. 

Anyway.

Yes.

Actual News About Actual Stuff.

Firstly the book launch is all sorted and stuff. Oh yes. And it's not just in a mate of mines garage. No, it's in a real life place. The Opera Piano Bar. Yes. Fancy no? It's got a bar and music and seats and tables and a bar and me and t-shirts and books and me and a bar. 

So you are all invited.  It'll be proper mint, how.

Plus, (and strangley far more exciting) the T SHIRTS are ready!

Oh yes, step right up folks and own your very own "I *heart* Lesbian Nurses" T Shirt. It's even tinkerable. And, you know, Christmas is just round the corner, it'll make a great gift for just about anyone*. C'mon, all the cool kids are wearing them...

Anyway, when I get a bit more info about the launch I'll let you know. 

But I'm muchos excited. 

Things are going well. Book launch, t-shirts, a string of grin tastic weekends, Disco Kettle almost in new kitchen. Things are going well. And it scares me...

(*children, parents, grandparents, prudish aunts and disapproving neighbours not included)

Beginnings: A Retrospective, A Hope and a Packed Disco Kettle

With the book out in but two months (oh yes, I will assume your copy is already preordered) and with my foray into the world of the MA, plus with a beginning at home - The Best Possible Thing, I think, I've been tempted more and more to think of this as Year One. 

When the book comes out in January I will have finally realised a long held ambition. Possibly the only ambition I have maintained, or that has remained, since I started school. I will be a published author. People will read my book. And I have been thinking about how chuffed that knitted jumpered little boy would be feeling.

Of course, the fact that my first Official MA Assignment is a Personal Reflection based largely on why I started writing may go some way to explaining my current introversion. So, anyway, I've decided to share a little bit of it. Not a lot, just a bit. And it's got a reference and everything...

"At some point, some distant, out of focus day, the whole thing seemed to slip away from me. Somewhere down the line, at some setting hour, the game became too important. I remember staring at bruised, dark, swollen clouds and being somewhere else.

I remember I started to make notes.

I remember making sure that I would not forget the game.

The name was never important. The characters were never really important. In the games we played our protagonists were all much the same. I was I was I was I. Strangely I was always injured. Strangely I was always captive.

At some point, some rainy, lonely afternoon, the whole thing seemed to slip away from me. I started making notes. I did not show those notes. I hid them from friends. I folded them into a space between my wardrobe and the wall. These notes were private games.

I remember I was playing games, my friends played Games. Rules. Systems. Tactic. Strategies. I kept making notes. Sometimes the notes were in sentences. Sometimes the sentences were connected together. And somewhere down the line, in some loud and crowded classroom, the game became more important.

“We can never give anything up.” Said Freud, and I think that perhaps he had a point. “We only exchange one thing for another… [when a child] stops playing he gives up nothing but the link with real objects, instead of playing, he now phantasises.”

I remember the toys becoming much less important. I remember them becoming unnecessary. I remember phantasies. I remember one sentence following another. I remember crossing the boundaries of that first page. I remember the fresh page, the sparkling white, the faded blue lines, and me starting it part way through an idea. Those pages flowed.

At age ten: eight pages is a mammoth task. At age ten: eight pages is an achievement unmatched throughout history. At age ten: eight pages is a release of something powerful. At age ten, at some point, someone will tell you to stop.

The content is unimportant, a story based on bluetac is an achievement I will only manage once and I wish I’d been able to keep a hold of the book. What is important is that I did not stop. What is important is that I wrote a game about a hedgehog. A game about a scientist. A game about a rock named George."

Proper mint no? Thank you for allowing me my self indulgence...

Plus: Disco Kettle is all packed.

I move into my new place at the end of the month. Got a bed ordered and everything. DK is muchos excited, he's even volunteered to do a photo shoot once he's in the new place. He's been posing  and Fffssssttting for the last few day practicing. He's even been working on harmonising his Bing with the microwave. It's all very sweet.

Of Undergoing Identity Crisiseseses

Right. I've had a busy week. Obviously there was Spain - which was, you know... Well, I've lost weight, lets put it that way. But I'm not blaming the booze. Oh no. Something is going around, honest. It's not ALL my own fault.


But last weekend I've also been Dahn Saarf. Innit. Wiv me spoons an pearl suit an apples and pears and other fruit salad stuff.


And now I'm knackered.


I did get to go to a costume party though. And, horribly, it got me all wondering again...

It's this whole juggling thing again I think, different bits, extra arms, occasional shift in priorities. Gets confusing.

I am, generally, during the day a Professional and Caring Teacher - able to Educate and Inspire and to Look Very Busy when people arrive during my free lessons (much like now - the sound of typing is always convincing.)

Most evenings I play at Hugely Successful Author (at least in my head I do - it is generally a role characterised by glazed eyes and me staring into space...)

Two evenings a week I also get to play at Dedicated and Conscientious Student, with added bonus of a secret I'm Actually Already Getting Published superhero pants which I wear beneath my jeans.

I also get to play at Star Striker on a Friday night. At least during the first half. Second half I'm knackered so I play at Lumbering Defender instead.

Of course I have a favoured role I get to play, feels like my most natural I think - generally get to play it on a Weekend, sometimes on a Wednesday. It a Grinning Like A Tit role and is, most definitely, my favourite.

So anyway.

I'm sat on the Tube (dahn saarf), on a Saturday - please note, no longer Halloween, in a giant yellow duck suit. And too my left is a five foot nine baby. With beard. To my right is a four foot ten crack whore. Without beard. And I'm sat there, whilst a German tourist snaps pictures.

And I know exactly which roles I favour, and I only wish I could play them more often.

On the upside though - regardless of role, my wonderful hair remains the same. Largely due to the glue thats in it.