Monday, 3 May 2010
Automatic writing exercise.
My God. I am starving. The time for the writer's group was advertised wrong in the paper, so I turned up an hour early. I've not had tea yet. I was hoping someone would have brought some cookies or chocolate just to tide me over for a few more minutes. But no. My handwriting is deteriorating, my stomach is empty and my head is starting to pound.
In the middle of the table, there's a giant pile of Ian Rankin books, donated by one of the group members. Rankin is the dude with two names- he sticks an 'm' in his name whenever he writes SF, but does not for crime. I'll check these books out. Have a peruse. Then stick it on the “to read” pile in my house, on top of the James Ellroy, Carl Haissen and Stephen King.
Rankin is a Scottish writer. Another Scottish writer is Irvine Welsh. (Fluid transition, there. Amazing.) I met Irvine Welsh in, what, 2008 maybe? He was signing copies of his new book, Crime, in the back of Waterstones Deansgate. Welsh also read a funny segment of the book- involving a coked-up cop flirting with two old American women.
And then the timer went. I was going to say: I got a signed copy and a photo with him. Crime is good book but not for the faint of heart. Very different to Trainspotting and its sequel, Porno. Much more dour and very, very dark. I recommend all three.