MacBosanko

Any Scottish bookseller will tell you that a new title shelved in Scottish Fiction will sell far more copies than it would if it were shelved in General Fiction only.
After a heavy week spent re-shelving myself in Edinburgh, I have discovered that the Waterstone’s computer does not classify me as a Scottish author and that’s why my new book is in the wrong place (or at least, not in the RIGHT place). Okay, so my name’s not MacBosanko but I stay here in Edinburgh, my books are set in Edinburgh, and I hereby claim author residency shelving rights. I’m not sure if the nice Waterstone’s booksellers I spoke to can override the company classification system but I hope so, otherwise I’m going to be re-shelving myself all over Scotland for the foreseeable future. The MacBosanko Reclassification Tour. Actually, I wouldn’t mind a trip north. Do me good to get out of my pyjamas before lunchtime.

Me and My Pyjamas

If anyone is curious to know why pyjamas play such a vital role in my life, then I refer you to author, Dorothy Koomson's website where you will find a full explanation. I was flattered when Dorothy asked me for my writing tips. Nobody has ever asked me for that kind of information before and so I took the task very seriously. Pyjamas feature in Writing Tip No.1. Keen readers may notice that Tip No.5 contradicts Tip No 1 because it mentions working at a desk rather than in bed. I justify this on the grounds that it's good to have a change of scene and working at a desk does not preclude the wearing of pyjamas - not in my job, anyway. Think of it as Extreme Office Casual.

Launched

It’s the day after the launch party for 'A Nice Girl Like Me' and I’ve spent five hours lying on the sofa while my husband watches the Ryder Cup on Sky Sport. The fridge is full of leftovers, the bin is full of bottles, there are cards on every surface and I still haven’t managed to get out of my pyjamas. It feels a bit post-Christmas. I can see my pink, pointy shoes lying where I kicked them not long after midnight when I couldn’t stand the high-heeled pain any longer. It was a good party. At Ottakar’s my husband made a speech which had far better comic material than anything in my novel. He had refused to tell me beforehand what he was going to say, but had tormented me for weeks about what he might reveal about me and my foibles. In the end, I think I got off lightly. He was only gently mocking of my enormous collection of pyjamas and how I wear them a lot of the time. I did a short reading - the bit where the heroine describes her husband: "Andrew always said that before he met me his life had been very predictable." Afterwards, I signed books. It’s quite surreal having your aunties and friends form a queue at your book-signing table. Good atmosphere though. Lots of cake to go round. The cake Mum had brought was spectacularly fab: huge, pink and glittery, with a well-iced Barbie made up to look like the cover of the book. I couldn’t have asked for more.

Back on the Blogwagon

My cousin in London has found my blog and wonders when I’m going to update it. Well, lazy is as lazy does, Michael. I’ve taken a few sickies, been on holiday and I’ve just plain procrastinated, but look - here I am back on the blogwagon.
Michael (known dahn south as Mike-the-Geordie) would like to see some continuity. That’s probably because he works in film production and really cares about sticking to schedule and making things happen in the right order.
So to fill you in, Michael, here’s a flashback (flashblog?)

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I feel like I’m dreaming because all I can see are thousands of copies of my new novel whizzing past me on the production line at Clay's printworks.
‘A Nice Girl Like Me’ is coming to A Nice Bookshop Near You on September 16th. The print run is 50,000 and this, the printer tells me, is a lot. I want to hear more; I want to say: tell me you’re gonna to make me a star. But I’m sensible and rational and instead I explain that I’m pushing my luck just fighting for shelf space between Iain Banks and Christopher Brookmyre. Secretly, I am thrilled that in print run terms at least, quantity equals celebrity. To me, Clay’s in Bungay, Suffolk is quite simply, The Most Exciting Place in Britain.

wibbly wobbly wibbly wobbly wibbly wobbly

Back in Edinburgh, I sit at my desk and think how I ought to get on with novel No3 then I remember that I can avoid it by writing my blog instead. Good idea.

Let me know if you can come to the launch party, Michael. Ottakar’s has kindly offered the use of their café upstairs for book-buying family and friends, so bring your credit card. Mum’s bought her outfit and has ordered a cake. I’ve heard a rumour that someone is knitting the cover design as a surprise, but I don’t like to get my hopes up. I’ve saved some of my special pink whisky for the party. There’ll be more at our place afterwards - and no giving me a fright at the front door like you did the last time, you chancer.

Whisky Work

Worked hard at the Whisky Tasting Panel down at Leith tonight. Eight cask strength samples to try and I had to share a spittoon with the Chairman and someone important from Glenmorangie plc. Fortunately, we could all spit with precision.
There was a very good Glenfarclas distilled in 1965 - same age as me. We thought it was actually robust enough to enjoy along with a cigar or a coffee or even very pure chocolate. I liked the Caol Ila best though. It was the kind of whisky that just explodes on the palate and fills your mouth with peatsmoke. Tingles round the tongue for ages afterwards and sends your tastebuds reeling. Fab. A really long finish.
There was one other woman at the panel tonight - she of the snazzy leopard print ensembles - and she reckoned it would be two hours before the Caol Ila finish had actually finished finishing. I agreed with her at the time but it’s midnight now and that Caol Ila is not over yet, so I make that a four hour finish and counting. I shall have to seek corroboration from Leopard Lady tomorrow morning.

Challenging

I've been away in the Lake District. My husband wanted to do the English Munros - four mountains over 3000 feet - and the challenge he set himself in a cross-border raid was to knock ‘em off in 24 hours. There were to be no cushy car-rides between mountains either. I set myself the challenge of waiting for him in four different car parks while writing 3000 words. My lap-top battery could never have gone the distance and so I wrote longhand. I sat in the car with supplies of isotonic drinks and bananas and I wrote long and hard. I wrote with writer's cramp.
My husband completed his challenge in nineteen hours.
I did not manage to complete mine, but from my reading of the theoretical physics in ‘Mobius Dick’ I have learned that in a quantum universe, I probably did. Somewhere, somehow, in another Lake District, my particles knocked out 3000 words. In another life, my conscience is clear. If only I had a quantum lap-top I could visit my conscientious other self and copy and paste the whole of my next novel. Even if I had to abide by the quantum rules and only see a page at a time, it would still save an awful lot of bother.

Gratitude

For the very first time, my blog has been read by someone I do not know. His own blog is one of my favourites and so I decided I would email him for advice. (I always adhere to the belief that ‘Shy Bairns Get Nowt’) Thank you Naked Blog for your sound advice and encouragement. And thank you for sharing my pain about the exclusivity of the Authors’ Yurt. I agree, it shows more confidence if an author chooses to sit in the plebs' bar, but it’s just that I’ve got it into my head now that I want an invitation to the Authors' Yurt. I might well choose to sit in the plebs' bar, but I ’m going to see the inside of that Authors’ Yurt if it kills me.
A word on Author Etiquette:
If I ever get to do a book festival and someone asks me to sign their book , I’ll be really nice about it and I’ll smile and be polite and friendly. I won’t be like the author I queued to see who didn’t even bother to look at me, she just snapped, ‘Name? Whaddyawantmetoput?’
If anyone can be bothered to queue for a signed copy of a book I've written, I’ll be courteous and I’ll be grateful. I’ll probably shake that reader by the hand and give her a kiss (or him - I’m not fussy).

Book Festival & Thirsty

I would love to do a book festival one day but I can't because nobody knows me and nobody but my Mum would turn up. Authors invited to the Edinburgh International Book Festival enjoy hospitality in a special Authors' Yurt. I’ve tried to get in just to see what it’s like, but I always get turned away like a disappointed groupie. I know authors who have been inside and they torment me with stories about the minibar and the superior sandwiches.
This year, I’m not going to bother trying to gatecrash the Authors’ Yurt, partly because I’ll be seeing literary brilliance for free every lunchtime at The Meadows Bar with Thirsty Lunch. Andrew Crumey will be there and since I'm enjoying reading 'Mobius Dick' I'm going to go
and meet the author.
The only literary event I will be participating in myself is the Traverse Theatre's Writers' Party. I got invited because they rang up the whisky society and requested some cask-strength single malt and someone to go round with a tray and talk about it. So, yes I am appearing at the Edinburgh International Festival this year – as a barmaid.