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…
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?
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.
It’s time you stopped blaming that book you wrote or recommended for the fact I didn’t like it. It’s time you started blaming me instead. With a little help from quantum physics, I explain why loving any book is a miracle, why my bad mood became your problem, and why writing a book is like putting an unseen cat in a poisonous box.