Last weektime, I attended launch events for the novel to which I contributed some nouns and miscellaneous burbles. In fact, it is not braggadociolicious to say that I wrote most of the nouns and miscellaneous burbles in this novel using my own unmanly digits and that small part of my cerebrum where mildly vicious comic prose is located. This novel I mainly wrote, The 1002nd Book to Read Before You Die, concerns a man who wants to read a millenary-plus-one of novels on the Orkney Isles, a man who swiftly fails, then has relations with an eccentric librarian for something else to do. The first launch event was in Waterstones in Glasgow, where I sat on a chair opposite Kevin MacNeil, Scottish poet and novel-man (author of the excellent novels The Stornoway Way, A Method Actor’s Guide to Jekyll & Hyde, and The Brilliant & Forever), and made sounds through my facehole.
One large day later, I attended a book shop in Edinburgh called Blackwell’s, a spiffing establishment where I used to hoover up texts as an undergraduate in between reviewing Pixies albums in the library and loathing myself with a ferocity unseen since last week. I sat beside excellent book blogger Alistair Braidwood (from Scots Whay Hae), who asked me things about the words I had written, to which I replied with various vocal gymnoplasties, most of these edging soberly towards the edge of incoherence, some lightfantastically tripping along a line of intended meaning. Later, we had hops.
The novel is published by Sagging Meniscus Press. Available here:
The tap of literature must keep running. The tap of literature must run in a violent frothing spurt and flood the universe, or we must blow out our brains. We are the wordpeople. We are sitting in our rooms with six hundred novels and a portrait of Charles Dickens and a stuffed panda with burst bowels and a radiator allergic to heat molecules. We have no names we wish to impart. We are the wordpeople and we are sitting in a room and we are hammering out sentences and more sentences and more sentences and we have no intention of stopping. We are seated on wicker chairs with light cushion support and we are writing these words that run along the page like a set of shapely olympian legs, sprinting right to left and right to left and right to left and right to left across the page before leaping a line below and sprinting again right to left and right to left and so on. We have nothing to say to you, we have everything to say to you. We not concerned with concision, we are concerned with excess. We are concerned with committing words to the page. We are committed to keeping the tap of literature running. We are writing writing. We are writers writing writing. We are writing against, we are writing for. We are writing for the future of writing. We are writing against the plague of illiterature reducing our minds to shrivelled sultanas. We are writing against the assholic automatons reducing our language to a bowl of lukewarm unsalted porridge. We are sitting on these wicker chairs with light cushion support to preserve the dignity of every writer who has ever enriched and shaped our lives with the wondrous weft of their words. We are writing from RESPECT. We are frothing at the pen with fume at the ruthless financiers scheming to spifflicate the Great Novelists from the public consciousness. We will not stop. We will write on and on and on and on. We have nothing to offer except this unending stream of words. We repeat ourselves whenever we wish. We repeat ourselves excessively, we repeat ourselves ecstatically. We repeat ourselves. We write whatever we want with little consideration for consistency, character, or concision. The tap must run, for the sake of our friends, families, enemies, and indifferent onlookers. The tap of literature must keep running. The tap of literature must run in a violent frothing spurt and flood the universe, or we must blow out our brains.