I haven’t written in here for a while. Okay, most of my attention’s gone on this month’s NaNo, but I also took some time out to commit my first holiday in about three years.
‘Person-hair’ stands at just over twenty-seven thousand words as of this morning, which is good. It’s gone (as I think I wrote a week or two back) in a much more emotional direction from the violence-fest I’d anticipated.
The outline seemed really violent but the process of making it real has led me into areas of the characters’ personalities I hadn’t expected.
And the holiday, you ask? Me and a friend went to Riga, Latvia for a week. And I wrote all but one of the days I was away.
Riga’s a beautiful city. I’d say it rivals Paris in terms of sheer loveliness – but then, I’m a sucker for all those imposing, soviet-era buildings.
And all those churches that look like mosques. Big onion on top. It really is a beautiful city.
I was pretty underwhelmed by their market, however. It seemed to consist of mostly clothes and footwear. And underwear – LOTS of underwear. Although anyone over a certain age – or chest size – isn’t really catered for in Riga. Once a woman hits THAT age or THAT size, the only ‘Saturday night-wear’ available is granny nighties. Not quite what my Wee Glamourous Pal had in mind, apparently.
There’s also a sex shop we found. Prices were about half what one would pay back in blighty. Most of Riga’s prices are about the same or slightly more. Like Belfast in the 1980s. But their sex shop was immense.
Coming back, we had the three foot latex-covered rattan cane sticking out the top of a dolly trolley. And we got it past Ryanair’s security, past the heavily-armed UK borders agency at Prestwick and back to my Wee Glamourous Pal’s place.
The following day, I had to get it to Glasgow, across the city centre and onto the Edinburgh train. Making great time, me and my wee bag with the sticky-out stick.
Unbeknownst to me, there had been some kind of football ceremony that afternoon. And the centre of Glasgow was filled to capacity with cunts. Football-tribe cunts, to be precise.
So I was stuck on the station, watching the uniformed masses being crammed onto trains by other uniforms.
I hate football (and pretty much all other sports) like I hate racism. And the only thing worse than people is groups of people.
Still, I got home unmolested. And carried on writing.
now, why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)
Guaranteed – absolutely NO traces of horse DNA anywhere in this novel. And that’s the truth – or my name’s not David Cameron.