Holy. Wow.

It’s live. It’s a live TV show. I’m going to be on live TV.

You know what this means, don’t you? Yeah:

• Profuse sweating: it’ll be like that scene out of Broadcast News, when wotshisname does his first anchor spot and nearly drowns in his own sweat.
• Profuse profanity: I won’t be able to stop myself. I’m sure I’ll unknowingly colour the air around me blue with expletives. Maybe I should do the interview in sign language, that way I’ll offend a lot less people.
• Giggling. Lots of.
• Falling off the sofa: I won’t be able to coordinate my limbs.
• Inappropriate stroking of Philip Schofield’s hair. Maybe. Probably.
• Dropping things: you know in Lauren bacall’s first role in To Have and Have Not, she was so nervous that she kept her head down and looked up at the camera and consequently looked spectacularly gorgeous and sultry and divine? Well, it’s going to be exactly like that when I try to drink coffee from the mug in front of me. And by “exactly like that” I mean absolutely nothing like that and I’ll either drop the whole thing or just dribble down my front.

I might be just a tad nervous. Can you tell?

I am such a lucky girl.

Though I really should get some decent author photos taken. Pointing the photographic departments of various magazines towards my Flickr pages to use my photos is all very well, but I’m sure people will soon tire of seeing me lurking in long grass and larking about in pigtails and require something rather more staid and serious.

Or maybe they won’t.

Hopefully they won’t.

In an attempt to keep warm I’m wearing my kitty hat at my desk. You know the one. You’ve seen photos. It’s a grey crocheted beanie hat with ears. I adore it, but I’m in such a bad mood this morning I just feel stupid in it.

Fucking grow up, Justine. You’re not a child.

I am whingeing. I am scowling. I am growling.

Suddenly, someone knocks quietly on my door. I turn towards the sound and look through the glass panel, only just restraining my hand from grabbing a stapler and hurling it in that direction.

It’s Lynne, from the next door office. Lynne is a database programmer, like myself, very quiet, conscientious, shy. Maybe ten years older than me. Her pale face smiles back at me from behind the glass. I try on a welcoming expression. I’m not sure it’s convincing, but she seems to be encouraged enough to poke her head round the door. She clears her throat and says:

“Morning. I just wanted to tell you that your hat really suits you. It looks lovely.”

And with that, she is gone, not waiting for a reply and shutting the door softly behind her.

So I quite like the sunshine now. And the morning. And my hat.

And she’s left me her smile. It’s all over my face.

I might have ripped the plastic off with my teeth. I might have done that.

I might also have rolled around on them for a while, hugged them, kissed them, cried, laughed. Yep, I may have done a lot of that. I mean, just look how beautiful they are:

That’s all I’m going to say about it, because I’m overwhelmed.

Oh, I will say one more thing. I’ll beg you to buy it. Please? I need to be able to afford a hair cut at some stage this year.

I’m especially chuffed about this, even more so than with my four-page article in the April edition of Glamour magazine (which of course is also hugely exciting), as it’s the first piece that will concentrate solely on the book, on my writing.

And that’s what it’s all about. Not yours truly. Not this silly mug. Not my family.

The writing.

So. I’ll just be bouncing off the walls for the rest of the day.

Don’t mind me.

I’ve been asked to do a 2000-word first person piece for Glamour magazine, one of the biggest selling glossies in the UK. This in itself was fairly gobsmacking, but when I heard there was a photo shoot in the offing too I was stunned. Everything has happened incredibly quickly, with the article going to press this coming Friday, and me only finishing the piece yesterday. The photo shoot, in my house, happened last Friday, with huge amounts of camera equipment, clothing and makeup taking over the whole house.

All three women, director, photographer and makeup/hair stylist, were fantastically friendly, fun and professional and I was very soon put at my ease and posing for the camera as if I’d always done it. The swinging from the light fittings may have been a tad much, but they managed to talk me down without losing their smiles. Anyway, they seem to have got some good shots to work with, despite my extreme jetlag. We. Shall. See.

The writing of the article, about the autobiographical elements of my novel to do with my relationship with my father, was difficult. Not least because of the painful issues I was dealing with but also because of the tight deadline. I don’t know how journalists can knock out so much copy with mere hours to spare. I work better under time pressure, but this was ridiculous.

Also, jetlag.

So, that’s me, wearing my own bodyweight in makeup, appearing in April’s edition of Glamour, out in March.

Did I mention the jetlag?

And because it’s hilarious, and I felt like a bloke in drag, a photo of me a couple of minutes after being dolled up, posing like a poser and wearing more makeup than all the makeup I’ve ever worn in my whole life put together. Also, false eyelashes. Yes, really:

Yes. Really.

Even more exciting was seeing the proof copy of Advice for Strays propped up on the main desk at the agency, right next to Ali Shaw’s wonderful and successful novel The Girl With The Glass Feet. Look how cosy they are together:

Now it’s really starting to feel real.

I found a package from my publisher yesterday when I got home after work, containing five proof copies of Advice for Strays.

What I did next:

• Gasped.
• Squeed.
• Almost threw up.
• Stroked them.
• Burst into tears.
• Laughed like a hyena.
• Cried some more.
• Smelled them.
• Opened one.
• Sobbed.
• Flicked through a few pages.
• Put it down.
• Fell off the sofa, on which I was kneeling, still in my coat and boots.
• Tried to get back up but tripped over the rug.
• Squealed.
• Whooped.
• Repeat.

These are just the proofs for reviewers and overseas publishers and other dignitaries, and the final novel will look like the central bit of the illustration you can see on the cover, but holy hell I’m unable to describe what it feels like to see my little book almost all growed up and printed and bound and my words inside and a photo of me on the back and my name, my name, on the cover.

I’ll calm down soon. Honest.

(Image via my Flickr)

So. There you have it, chums.

Please summarise the purpose and contents of your book (do not be modest).

The purpose of my book, I thought? Er, to be bought and read? To be enjoyed? To be used as a door stop? To be shredded and used as hamster bedding? Um…

The contents, I supposed, are words. Lots of words. Put together to form sentences which make a, um, story. Hopefully the story and its words will make some sort of sense and elicit some positive emotions and be enjoyed, rather than make people want to bang their heads against the wall in anger at having spend their hard-earned cash on it.

And I noticed that I shouldn’t be modest while I was about describing the contents and purpose of my book. So, let’s see..wait. What? Was I meant to be filling in this questionnaire while sitting in my window wearing only my underwear?

Hmm, I thought. Completing this questionnaire is going to take me longer than I anticipated..