It’s HIGH CONCEPT JOKE TIME! A group of unfashionable narrative techniques attend their weekly support group, unaware that impending disaster is about to tear their world apart. Can the Omniscient Third Person Narrator refrain from commenting on everyone else? Will the Prologue From The Future ever get to finish? And will One-Liner Bob get to have the last laugh?
We can’t get enough of these modern historical TV dramas! Such feisty heroines! Such swashbuckling storylines! Such bosoms! Seriously, there are bosoms everywhere! Wouldn’t it be fabulous to have such excitement in real life?
But hold on a second… what would this mean for your olfactory well-being? Your ultra-modern duplex? Your HONOUR?
Facebook needs me to tell you something; anything. You see, they got extremely upset because I hadn’t told you anything in a while. I left them to suffer a bit, but now I’m back, with a meditation on Hong Kong, social media, designer brands, and get this – I have only gone and written you a POEM…
What does a bookshop do which nobody else can? And what has it got to do with why my bad memory can make even the hardiest, most optimistic author’s heart sink, and whether or not my family ever read this blog?
The lovely folk of The Annual Blogger’s Bash Awards have sashed me up with the Funniest Blogger prize. Just to prove that I’m an equal opportunities blogger, I’m posting something which might be more funny-peculiar than funny-haha. And why wouldn’t I? What else is a blog for, if not the ill-fitting and bizarre?
I have some things to tell you. They might even be interesting. However, none of these things would warrant a full post on their own, so I’m employing a cunning and never-before-seen trick of grouping them together. Today’s post concerns political tactics and vote-bashing; the Dublin Writer’s Conference; the fiction of literary fiction, and why it’s SO difficult to be right all the time.
Ever feel like nobody’s listening to you? Ever feel like nobody understands how you FEEL? Well, maybe you need to get yourself a Women’s Fiction Husband (TM). They’ll understand you right off the page. Every home should have one!
…Or should it? What would this mean in terms of arguments? Spontaneity? Your couch? Your KITCHEN?
You’re on every book cover. You’re the same woman, with different hair. But I cannot relate to you, and neither can anyone else. You are annoying me. And so I write this open letter to you, 20-year-old faceless girl who does not represent either me or the characters who speak beneath your covers.
It is a little-known fact that the old trope of a piano falling on someone’s head was inspired by every Irish person ever who felt proud of themselves for even five minutes. In this post I deal with misplaced pride, indie publishing scams, bogus bestsellers, my difficult childhood, and why if you want to be original, you should never read anything written by anyone else. Ever.
