External validation

The Lauras comes out tomorrow, which means I'm halfway to a quivering ball of nerves - though that may be the six cups of black coffee that I've just drunk. It's not that I'm worried that the book will be badly received, because on a fundamental level I believe that the writing is the important part, and it being read once it's finished is somewhat superfluous. But I do have a fair amount of impostor's syndrome when it comes to my fictive tendencies, so the days leading up to a proving point, when something new goes out into the world and people are asked to respond to it, aren't exactly relaxing. I'm not sure what it is that's got me uneasy - but then, even though I can't say  what it is about cloudy water that makes me uneasy I still won't stay in the bathtub after it's gotten too soapy to see the bottom.

In the positive column I've got a firmer idea of what's going on than I did last time, and I've got enough of a reference point to know that what's going on is so far all good.

Yesterday I got to scoot into London to record a segment for BBC Radio 4's Front Row, which means that, as with The Shore, my first time talking about The Lauras was in a recording room with Kirsty Lang. Which was the best possible way to start things off, because Kirsty is wonderful. It's too early yet for me to have a solid idea of the sort of conversations the book will prompt, or to have well thought out responses to them, so her questions are my primer for what I should be thinking about as Edinburgh draws nearer and other speaking opportunities pop up.

The thinking is going to need to happen quickly, as I'm going back into London tomorrow afternoon for an interview with Radio Gorgeous, which is unexplored territory for me.

Text-wise, there have been good reviews in the Sunday Mirror, the Sunday Times, and Stylist Magazine, with rumblings of more to come. Even though no one's panned it as far as I've seen, I'm quite tempted to put my head down and pretend that none of it is happening. The writing is really the fun bit, and the thesis clock is ticking.

West Cork Literary Festival

Despite living in the UK for the better part of six years, I've only managed to get over to Ireland twice so far, even though the flight is shorter than the train journey to Norwich. My first thought on landing in Cork airport was that this is a problem that needs remedying, preferably with David in tow, as he hasn't really seen Ireland either. It's not so much that the southwest coast is beautiful - everyone knows that - as that it is my kind of place: quiet and slow and hidden, coastal with lots of space for walking and getting lost.

The festival was held in the town of Bantry, which was big enough for me to get lost in more than once but small enough that I really shouldn't have been able to. Since it was such a trek the festival let me come across a day early, which meant that I had an evening and a morning in which to get lost.

The reading took place on Whiddy Island, which looks like this:

The other writer was Horatio Clare with Down to the Sea in Ships, who is a character. We scooted across to the island an hour early to get ourselves settled in, which consisted mostly of talking books and teaching, being anxious, and getting sunburned. That was when I found out that I should probably update my author photo: he'd spent the evening before drinking with the festival organisers and other writers, and even though they knew for certain that I'd made it to Bantry, no one had been able to spot me, or been certain that they'd spotted me, because they were all looking for red hair. 

Most of our nerves were due to neither of us being able to remember if we had a chairperson for the event, which is the difference between an easy-bordering-on-fun undertaking and an event in which I am guaranteed to faint, so we were both incredibly relieved when Sue Leonard turned up on the ferry along with the audience and said that she'd be running the show so we needn't worry. We read, we talked about misogyny and violence and the sea, and all in all it was a lovely way to put The Shore to bed, as this was most likely the last time that I'll get to talk about it more than in passing. The Bantry bookseller managed a little black magic and had copies of The Lauras for sale, which gave Sue and I both a moment of anxiety when we saw them because she hadn't read it and I hadn't prepared it and we were both certain that it wasn't the book that we were meant to be talking about but there it was. 

Afterwards I got the chance to chat with some of the audience, which is always fun, and finally met Sara Baume, who wrote Spill, Simmer, Falter, Whither, and with whom I share an agent, a publisher, and a name. And after that I got to hear Zadie Smith and Nick Laird read their work and talk about writing, which brought about something not far off a moment of perfect happiness. Which was good, because after that I discovered that somewhere along the way I'd picked up a case of food poisoning. Which is half the reason why it's taken me nearly a week to say anything on the wonder of West Cork. The other half the reason is the sudden burst of little things to do before The Lauras comes out next week but which I haven't really had the energy to do. 

At least I'm back in Reading for a little while - this may be the first Saturday I've woken up here in five weeks - and with any luck will turn back into myself soon.

Tentacles and paperback reviews

So I found out this afternoon that The Shore has been shortlisted for the Golden Tentacle, the category of The Kitschies ("The prize for progressive, intelligent, and entertaining literature with a speculative element") reserved for debut fiction. The fact that The Shore is being considered spec fic makes me clam-in-mud happy - it also makes me really want to go off and write some properly hardcore speculative fiction, but I've promised to finish the current projects before I start anything else. There are five books on the shortlist, and I'm crossing my fingers that I get a chance to get my dirty mitts on the other four. Winners are announced on the 7th of March, which isn't very long to wait at all. And there aren't any poets on the shortlist, so I've got a tiny measure of hope this time.

And while I'm broadcasting news, an author Q&A has gone up on the review site run by Deborah Kalb for anyone who has questions but won't get a chance to ask them. And the Sunday Times ran a review for the paperback edition that was wonderfully positive and used the term 'anti-pastoral.' I'm not sure if I should get that tattooed somewhere or just use it as my work credo - next should come an anti-road novel, then an anti-family drama, and one day maybe an anti-romance if I work really hard.

Usually I dread looking at my email inbox, and doubly dread needing to respond to anything, but after having all of that come in today I'm almost feeling downright fond of the monstrosity...

Literary Friction

In the midst of the skittering around of a few weeks ago I paused to drop in on the agency of Conville and Walsh and have a conversation with two brilliant people on revenge, generational issues, and the books we've enjoyed reading recently. Said brilliant people are Carrie Plitt and Octavia Bright, the minds behind Literary Friction, the radio show/podcast about books and ideas (which has an awesome name). The session I took part in went out on NTS  last week and I, of course, missed it (because I'm amazingly good at missing everything), but now it is available as a podcast for anyone who would like to have a listen (hi, Mom!) and possibly crib book recommendations. 

I have a lot more to say, but today is the day that I haul myself and my work back to Reading for the month and I haven't really slept in the past week or so, so more words will have to come when I have more brain.

Aftermath: way too many words about the past week

We appear to have hit the sudden death round of term. Or that could just be an idiosyncrasy of my calendar and everyone else is bopping along the same as always; I'm never sure.

On Monday I skittered to London, first to sit down with Carrie Plitt and Octavia Bright in the Conville and Walsh office to record a segment for Literary Friction, a monthly conversation about books that airs on NTS and that you really should be listening to, then to Foyles to have a chat with Andrew Holgate ahead of the evening's readings. The turnaround between the judges selecting the winning book and the book being announced in the Sunday Times is apparently a hair's breadth, so he interviewed all four of us with the aim of being able to pop out a write-up of the winner in that gap - respect due for journalistic integrity, but I do not envy him. 

Three previous winners of the prize came to speak before the shortlistees, and I just barely managed to not embarrass myself by fawning all over Helen Simpson - "Diary of an Interesting Year" was both an influence for The Shore and used to scar my writing students; "Hey Yeah Right Get a Life" scarred me when I was a student; her stories have been my company back and forth across the ocean and in the darkest parts of sleepless nights - who I never thought I'd have the chance to meet. Andrew Cowan, who I haven't really spoken to since he supervised my MA dissertation, was also there, which was a little odd since I remember exactly nothing from that year and he appears to retain a crystal clear recollection of every moment, which is not a dynamic one wants to have with a director at one's university. 

The actual event went well, but the evening ended with Andrew and I running across London and through the underground in an effort to get to Liverpool Street Station in time for the 22.30 train back to Norwich. We made it to the station at 22.27, winded and sans dignity, to find that the train had been cancelled and the next one left at 23.30 and would take three hours to arrive owing to leaves on the track. To cut a long story short, I made it home by 3 AM having shared a drink, a train carriage table, and a taxi with Andrew, and now know far more UEA gossip than I'd thought I ever would. 

On Tuesday I woke up with the sudden realisation that, if I wanted to get to London on time for the Guardian ceremony on Wednesday, I'd better leave that afternoon. Autumn is the season of cancelled trains in East Anglia, and I've missed too many important things due to being stranded before. So I dragged myself up to pack, deal with the contents of the refrigerator, do the dishes, put in some laundry, and all of the other little things a body has to do before they leave the house for a week. 

Given how little sleep I'd gotten, I was a bit shocked that I managed to get myself in gear and out the door in time to catch the 15.30 train. Which was cancelled. But that was a good thing, because I found when I got to the station that I'd lost my railcard the night before. No one had found it, but they could make me a new one if I could get my hands on a passport photo. So I ran with my suitcase across the road to find a photo booth, cried just enough that the lady at the counter accepted my student card as proof that I was a student, and got on the 16.00 train just before it left. And then realised that I'd left my rings on the counter of the kitchen that my housemate is inevitably going to destroy this weekend, and if he can make tupperware and five gallon slow cookers vanish then a few bands of silver have no chance. 

That train was delayed, so when we finally got to London I had to fight my way off against the tide of people trying to get on, even though they had fifteen minutes before the train left to go back to Norwich. I spent twelve of those minutes in the station trying to find dinner before I realised that I'd left my suitcase with all of my work in it on the train, one minute panicking, forty-five seconds sprinting from one end of the station to the other in the hope that the train hadn't left yet, and thirty seconds babbling at rail workers in a panic as I sprinted down the platform, leapt into the carriage I'd ridden down on, ripped the damn suitcase out of the luggage rack, and fell back onto the platform a few seconds before the doors were due to lock. 

The next ten minutes were spent in the fetal position on the platform.  

So on Wednesday, when nothing happened to prevent me from getting to Blackfriars Bridge to meet Lucy in time to walk over to the OXO building for the Guardian party, I was nothing but relieved. And when we were standing on the stairs waiting to get into the party and talking about who we thought was going to win, all I wanted was to not win because I couldn't scare up any more nerve. And when it came down to it, I knew what book was going to win, because you don't announce a shortlist with "Book of poetry on shortlist for the first time in forever! Oh, there are these other five books, too" when the poetry isn't going to win. And then when it was announced that Physical was the winner I was far more satisfied than I should have been because I'd guessed correctly. 

It was an absolutely fantastic party, made just a little bit more fantastic by the fact that I (purposefully) look nothing like the one publicity photo that exists, so I got to spend the first half of the evening chatting with my publishers and my spouse-thing and taking unabashed advantage of our proximity to the door whence the food was issuing, while people who were meant to pin me down for a picture or a chat walked right past holding a reference photo taken when I had red hair.  Dave gave the game away when a woman with a massive camera and pictures of all the long-list authors came up and asked him if he was Peter Pomerantsev; it then took him an embarassingly long time to convince her that I am me. At which point I had drunk enough that talking to people wasn't scary at all, and I had a good long natter with several readers and quite a few industry people. I also at that point had no shame. Book events tend to be decorated with books, so several copies of the shortlist books were scattered tastefully around the room; this may or may not bear relationship to the fact that when I got home at 2 in the morning I somehow had the entire shortlist under my arm.

How did that get there?

And yesterday evening I had Thanksgiving dinner with my alma mater's study abroad group, caught up on the gossip back at home campus, gave out their class rings, and may have broke down sobbing when we sang the school song at the end of the evening. 

So today is, technically, the first day this week that I've got any hope of getting actual work done. But then, the kitchen cabinets could always stand to be alphabetised...

Interview at New in Books

Before I forget again (because a day late and a dollar short has been the theme of the past three years of my life so why break the streak?), an interview I did a while back on The Shore was posted on the website New in Books on Monday! The site is, of course a great place to find out about new books - which is something I'm actively bad at, believe it or not. But even if you are one of those wizards who always knows what to read next, it's worth taking a look - there appear to be periodic giveaways.