I feel slightly out-of-condition. Somewhere I’ve lost the ability – and focus – to write every day. Still, now I’ve identified the problem, hopefully I can rip its lungs out.
The plan: I’m still keeping my (near) daily journal, still trying to write in here as often as I can. And when there’s time, I’m getting torn into ‘coal face’.
My journal is essentially an x-ray snapshot of my skull each morning. What I’m thinking about, how I feel about it, anything interesting that’s happened in the last twenty-four.
‘Coal face’ seems to be getting plenty of likes and follows. Which is kind of ironic, being as it’s an attempt to write something that out-grosses everything else I’ve done. The self-mutilation in ‘erotic cleansing’, even the cascades of shit, piss and miscellaneous in ‘1919’. The ‘great white death’ of contemporary scottish literature!


Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)


A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.