am i human yet?

as lame as it gets

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Random House

October 16th, 2009 by Justine
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So last Wednesday I went up to The Big Smoke to visit Random House for the very first time. It’s impressive. Lookit:

Random House

The occasion was my first publicity meeting, during which I would meet my new editor, Tom Avery, for the first time, along with Laura Mell my publicist and Vicki Watson from marketing. My lovely agent Susan Armstrong came along for to keep me sensible.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. It certainly wasn’t what actually happened. What actually happened was an amazing publicity plan in which they plan to go for it big time. I know there aren’t any guarantees that my book will be, for example, discussed on Woman’s Hour, in fact it’s probably unlikely to be picked up by them, but just to hear these fine folk talking about it, and with such excitement and enthusiasm, was enough to make me grin like a fool. A very happy fool. I may also have clapped my hands and jigged up and down in my seat a few times too. I may have done that.

So we discussed national and local radio, TV, magazines, papers, online stuff, festivals, readings, you name it.

More grinning, more jigging, more clapping.

A little tour of the offices followed, during which Tom pressed upon me some lovely books, including the recent Vintage reissue of Vonnegut’s Timequake, the ‘restored’ Carver short stories Beginners and many more. My bag was groaning under the weight of great literature by the time I left.

So that was that. They made me feel like a bit of a star. My next meeting with Laura about publicity will be during the first week of November, when she will visit my little burgh of Brighton, be treated to some fine beers in my favourite pub and tell me how we’re going to conquer the world.

And I’m still grinning like a fool.

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Proof of the proofs

August 27th, 2009 by Justine
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Today, after a bit of postal service wrangling, I received two copies of the printed proofs of Advice for Strays from my publisher. I can’t really describe what it’s like to see my words as they will appear in the printed book, all small and perfect and lovely-of-font. So I won’t try.

I spent some frenzied hours minutes taking photographs with my iPhone, then a few more dreamy minutes gazing at the copies.

Printed proofs of Advice for Strays

And now I’ll have to get to work.

I have until 14th September to send any corrections I have back to the publisher. That’s plenty of time. But being Her Majesty’s Procrastinator-in-Chief, I shall leave it all until the afternoon of the 13th, panic, weep, throw things, sit down, get up, cry some more, open the proofs, get a beer, check Twitter and then spend all night working to get it done before the deadline.

Life is exciting.

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Advice for Strays has a cover…and is on Amazon.

July 19th, 2009 by Justine
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Well suddenly it’s all happening.

On Thursday I received the cover artwork for my debut novel, Advice for Strays, from Jonathan Cape/Random House, my UK and Commonwealth publisher. I didn’t even know they’d commissioned any and had no idea what to expect but was bowled over with what I’ve got. I mean, look at it:

Advice for Strays cover art

Seriously, I love it and it perfectly captures the strange, slightly menacing but humourous atmosphere of the book. It was created by the wonderful Italian illustrator and designer Valerio Vidali.

It’s on my Flickr, where you can see it much larger and in all its glory. You can even leave a comment there, should you be so inclined. Go on. You know you want to.

At the same time, I discovered that the book is already available for pre-order on Amazon. I know, right!

You can read more about the novel on the Conville & Walsh website.

And, yes, if you want to pre-order (!) you can, at Amazon.

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What’s in your head?

July 17th, 2009 by Justine
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A short piece of writing today.

…

When you first meet him, the therapist gazes at you earnestly and asks why you have come here today.

It’s the first question that has to be asked, of course, but you’ve been dreading it and have no idea what to say.

How do you describe what is happening inside your head when every word that falls from your mouth betrays you?

When every breath you drag into your lungs fights back, is heavy and reluctant.

When you look at the stars and see only the blackness that surrounds them.

When food turns to ash in your mouth.

When every waking moment is spent trembling on the brink of crying or screaming but you find yourself physically unable to do either, so you smile and smile until you think your face will break apart.

When you notice the black hole churning in the ceiling above your bed and decide that today you will die.

So you grin at him wildly and shrug. Then ask if you can mime your problem. Or maybe do an interpretive dance. Then you laugh, because you can’t do anything else and the laugh turns into a sob and you sit there staring at the pen in his shirt pocket.

It is a green biro. Its cap bears deep teeth marks.

He smiles and says nothing.

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I would love to have a room of my own

April 29th, 2009 by Justine
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I originally posted this to my Tumblr. I’m putting it here as well. As you can see I’m a bit confused about what should go where, but ach. Whatever.

room

I would love to have a room of my own.

The room would be wide and long and white with a high, high ceiling. There would be a wooden floor. There would be a large, worn rug.

I would have a wide desk at which to sit and write and read and lay out new treasures. On the desk, which is wide and deep and happy to acommodate things, would live:

  • some favourite stones from the Scilly Isles in Cornwall;
  • a Dia de los muertos skull from Mexico;
  • a red Anglepoise 1227 reading lamp;
  • the wooden lion my sister brought me from South Africa;
  • pens and notebooks;
  • a few postcards and photographs;
  • my mother’s old orange Olivetti Lettera portable typewriter.

The desk would face one of two large windows. There would be no curtains, drapery or blinds. The window would face fields with mountains in the distance, or the sea.

I would have a good office chair, something beautiful and functional and which doesn’t hate my back. I guess this means Eames.

I would have bookshelves taking up most of the wall space. The shelves would reach the high ceiling and I would have a rolling ladder to reach the higher shelves. I’m 5′ 5″, so the higher shelves would be most of them.

I would have books filling the shelves.

I would have maybe a few pictures on the empty wall. I haven’t decided yet which, but there would be a couple of old photos of my mum, maybe one of my Dad. There would be at least one really old map of the world and one of Jamaica.

I would have my old telescope set up in front of the window without the desk, with a low stool.

I would have an Eames Lounge Chair and ottoman in Brazillian rosewood and black leather, because I’d have to do some lounging when my brain stops functioning. In the lounge chair I would ponder and read and cook up schemes and day-dream. I might throw a sheepskin on the lounger in the winter.

I would have a small wooden table next to the lounge chair. When I’m lazing I’d have on the table:

  • coffee in a mug, or vodka with tonic in a glass, or Laphroaig whiskey in a tumbler;
  • a notebook;
  • a book;
  • a pen.

I would have a little blue-grey cat with yellow eyes. The cat would

  • doze on the rug;
  • pounce on my feet while I’m trying to write;
  • jump up onto the desk and mess up my papers;
  • sit on the window sill to watch the birds;
  • tell me stories.

Sometimes she would join me in the lounge chair and curl up against me and purr. And then we’d both fall asleep and wake in the evening when the light is low and golden.

I would love to have a room like that.

It would be a room just for me. A room of my own.

Sort of inspired by Virginia Woolf, but sort of not really.

Image via emmas.blogg

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Unknown songs that make me smile

April 17th, 2009 by Justine
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There’s a man who walks across the grassy slope past my office window every day. Every day he passes at the same time. He must work at the University, as I do. He is unremarkable. He is middle-aged, balding. His grey suit fits. He neither hurries, nor dawdles. He carries a brown bag.

But whatever the weather, he sings. Loudly. As if he has an audience in a concert hall. He walks and sings his heart out, flings his arms out to his sides, raises them towards the sky. He throws his head back and belts out songs into the sunshine or the rain as he walks.

Sometimes the wind carries his words away and I don’t hear what it is he’s singing. Other times the air is still and I hear everything and it feels like he’s singing to me alone.

I’ve never known even one of his songs but no matter how bad a mood I’m in, no matter what I’m doing, just watching him love his voice and the song it sings makes me smile.

Just as it did five minutes ago when he passed by my window again. Just as he does every day.

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On not being able to be heartbroken

March 31st, 2009 by Justine
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I wrote about my friend Stuart, who was knocked from his bike and ended up in a coma, a couple of weeks back. At the time I was furious and grief-stricken and exhausted and had to put something down. The response I got from strangers and friends alike was overwhelming.

Can I just say thank you to everyone who sent messages of support and love. It meant more than you know. It meant more than I thought it could.

It strikes me now that I’ve been so busy trying to distract myself by playing the fool via Twitter and Tumblr that I’ve not revisited Stuart’s story in writing.

My friend was moved from the neurological unit back to our home town, Brighton, about a week ago. The doctors decided there was nothing more they could do as the damage to his brain is too extensive, and scheduled the withdrawal of all life support on Monday. Stuart was expected to die quickly. We had all in one way or another prepared ourselves for his death, but then the unexpected happened: he carried on breathing on his own. He still does.

This is the worst possible outcome. I make no apologies for that statement, and Stuart would be the first to agree. In fact, he’d wallop me on the back with a ‘You’re right, you lovely fucker!’ and give me a huge hug.

Did I say how much I miss him?

We, his family and friends, find ourselves unable to grieve, yet still mourning for a loved one who is no longer with us. We will visit him in the hospital, stroke his hand, read him stories, tell him dirty jokes, bring him flowers, kiss his face, show him photos as if his eyes are open, try to persuade ourselves that somehow he is still here. But he’s not. He’s gone. He won’t return. And there is no way of making any kind of sense of our loss while he breathes.

No-one knows how long this will last. It could be weeks, it could be years. We will carry on loving him and caring for him. We won’t stop.

We are heartbroken. But we cannot allow ourselves to be heartbroken.

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FYITE, World

March 10th, 2009 by Justine
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Well, this is the kind of real thing people blog about, right? Feelings, misery. It’s meant to be cathartic or some such. We’ll see.

A good friend, S, was riding his bicycle down the hill round the corner from my house Monday 2nd March, when a car turned into the road without looking and smashed into him. He was going fast and wasn’t wearing a helmet, but the consultant said it wouldn’t have made any difference. His brain impacted so hard within his skull it haemorraged. He’s lost the use of an eye, and an arm has been crushed. But it’s the brain injury which is the real problem, of course. He’s been lying in a coma in a specialist neurological unit since the accident.

The prognosis is extremely poor, the likelihood that S will live very much longer very low. His wife, a good friend, is refusing to see most people, even their 3-year old son.

Despite the fact he’s in a coma, S has had to be heavily sedated to try and alleviate some of the pressure on his brain. On Sunday they tried to bring him out of the sedation, but the pressure in his skull increased rapidly and dangerously and they had to put him back under. They said they’d never had to use such huge quantities of sedatives on anyone before.

That’s my lad. Fighting like a rhino. That’s what I call raging against the dying of the light.

I’m still writing lame jokes on Twitter and arsing about and talking crap, because I don’t really know what else to do. You see, he wouldn’t want it any other way:

“What the FUCK are you doing, moping around?”, he’d say, “I heard there are NSFW photos of unicorns screwing narwhals which need sharing. Get to it.”

So I will. I’ll think up gags while I’m crying at my desk, or on the bus, or in bed, just to try and make him laugh in my head. And to distract me from the horror.

I can’t really see what I’m typing any more.

And I know it’s a cliché and you’ve heard this a thousand times, and I know you probably don’t need telling but I don’t fucking care, I’m going to say it anyway. Hold your people close, guys. Hold them close because you don’t ever know what’s going to happen, or whether they’ll be there tomorrow.

We love you so much, S. Keep fighting. And don’t worry, dude: give me five minutes to pull myself the eff together and normal service will be resumed. There will be lame puns and stupid jokes aplenty.

Yeah, so there you go. Right in the eye, World.

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Interview questions given a damn good seeing to

February 28th, 2009 by Justine
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The lovely Katy asked me five questions as part of the ‘Interview me’ meme because I demanded she do so. Here I give those questions a damn good seeing to, and believe me, they loved every minute of it.

The correct form for this meme is for me now to say whoever would like to be ‘interviewed’ by me, leave me a comment to that effect, or email, and I’ll think up some questions and email you with them. Then you respond to them on your blog. Or in chalk on the pavement, wherever you like.

That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.

In case no-one’s noticed this also means I’ve posted two blog posts in just over a week. I know, I couldn’t believe it either. Commence pant-shitting.

1) What is your favorite song? Why?

I’m not sure I could pick an absolute favourite song, but it’s one of my favourites & probably means more to me than any other. In The Garden by Van Morrison. My Dad introduced me to Van the Man when I was about 12, giving me a tape of Morrison’s No Guru, No Method, No Teacher and whispering “Listen to In The Garden. It’s my favourite. The piano is the sunshine coming through the trees”. And he was right.

It’s possibly the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard, but the reason it’s so important to me is due to my relationship with my father. It could be called ‘deeply traumatising’ if you were into huge understatement, and was made up of about 97% fear and pain and 3% flashes of intense joy. He was schizophrenic, alternately terrifying, maudlin & hilarious. I hadn’t heard from him for 8 years when he emailed from Belarus. Then he visited in 2006 for two days for his father’s birthday and the last communication I ever had from him was a one-line email in the same year saying he was deeply ashamed of me. He died suddenly of a stroke in Belarus in November 2007. I haven’t actually listened to the song for about 8 years. But I think I will now.

2) Best trip you’ve ever taken – where and why?

7 months travelling through Mexico & Central America, 1997-1998. Usual seat-of-your-pants hippy traveler shit but I loved it. I adored Honduras – where I learned to scuba dive and nearly stayed on as Divemaster – and El Salvador, where the people, so ravaged by war and death squads were supremely kind, dignified and proud. Guatemala did my head in. I fell deeply in love with Mexico. Belize shat us out after a day: “Get back to England you fucking whiteys!” (British squaddies were known for behaving shockingly in Belize City & the place scared the living crap out of me). I met and travelled with some wonderful people, saw incredible things, hiked up volcanos, visited pyramids, lived butt nekkid on a beach for three weeks, contracted Giardia (look it up; actually dont because it contains the word ‘explosive’), and, know what, I’m not going to go on any more, it’ll take up pages. Suffice to say it was an incredible experience and I have the scars to prove it.

3) What are three accomplishments you’re most proud of?

Getting my first novel written & accepted for publication. Can that be all three?

(Out April 2010, get ready to pre-order on Amazon! Unless you’re in America! Or anywhere other than UK & the Commonwealth! Bugger!)

4) Favourite food?

I’m a woman who will eat pretty much anything, especially anything meat-based, but it wasn’t always like that. I need to tell a wee story to demonstrate the deep love I have for my favourite food. According to my mother I didn’t eat anything, not a thing, until I was about five years old. Teachers used to call her from school at lunchtime and ask her in desperation “What does this child eat?”. “Nothing”, would come Mum’s calm reply. It wasn’t entirely true, of course. Mum resorted to the old Croatian baby food classic: fresh white bread dipped in Soured Cream. It’s still my ultimate comfort food.

5) What do you think your best quality is and why?

I’m passionate. In every way, about everything. It can also be my worst quality; when coupled with my natural impulsiveness it spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

But that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Justine

That’ll be that then. As you were.

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In which I miss being terrified by sailing

February 23rd, 2009 by Justine
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Like most people in the UK during winter I’ve been snowed in stuck indoors. I spend my time twittering, tumlbring, generally fiddling about with my ’social media’ (not a euphemism…OR IS IT?) and being increasingly anti-social with my actual friends and family. Oh, and also occasionally doing some work and novel editing. I’ve activated extreme hermit mode and going to the pub on the corner feels like the equivalent of attempting the Northwest Passage.

But I am brave. I am bold. I make it to the pub when I really, really need to. I know, right?

What I’ve also been doing a lot of recently is missing the great outdoors and, specifically, going out on my boat. And I want none of those “she’s all posh and loaded, she’s got a yacht” type comments: this yacht cost us less than a battered campervan to buy and is considerably cheaper to maintain. Having said that she still sleeps four (pixies/3-year old humans/GI Joes) and has proper excretary and cooking facilities. A quick primer:

  • Make: Kingfisher
  • Length: 22′ foot LOA (length overall)
  • Built: 1976
  • Berthed: Emsworth, Chichester Harbour
  • General characteristics: built like a brick shit-house; will never win any races; owned by me since 2004; deeply loved.
  • Name: Santa Teresa de Jesus (not something I would ever name a boat, but there it is*).

My wee boat. Let me show you it:

santa-teresa

This photo was in the online advert and was the first I ever saw of the boat. I was instantly taken by the fact that she looked like she’d just crawled out of the primordial ooze, ready to evolve into a bus.

I last went sailing in September and miss it terribly. It’s the best way I’ve found for relaxing. For realz. Unlike Yoga, during which you get moments of calm punctuated by stretches of your mind cartwheeling around such inspiring issues as did I turn the heating down, I’m sure I missed the Encona off the shopping list, does my bum look big in these Thai Yoga pants, oh my God will my boobs fall out of this top when I do a headstand? When you’re on the water land-based worries seem to melt away, as if terra firma and its concerns belong to some alternate dimension. Quite disconcerting. Having said that, there are plenty of water-based worries to keep you shitting bricks occupied. A small selection follows: high winds; no wind; running out of loo paper; speed-freak container ships; speed-freak dinghy sailors; fishermen; fisherwomen; mud banks while sailing in fog; mud banks anywhere, at any time; dragging anchor while below doing, um, things; mermaids; seasickness; engine failure in the middle of busy shipping lanes; props getting fouled on unmarked lobster pot lines; rudder failure; running out of coffee. The only one I’ve yet to experience is that last one, and frankly, it’s the only one I’m pretty sure I couldn’t deal with.

But enough of that. Let’s have a wee salty dog story to show how much fun sailing can be.

A couple of years ago Andy and I were motoring into Yarmouth, a small but busy harbour on the north coast of the Isle of Wight, having been forced to take shelter from a increasing Force 6 wind. I was soaked, freezing and sore from battling the sails on the foredeck and we were both dog-tired from a long, hard journey from Dorset. The engine was on and the sails were finally stowed, not neatly, but well enough that they wouldn’t take an eye out if a particularly strong gust happened upon us. We crawled past Yarmouth harbour entrance and its ferry berthing area, and into the mouth of the packed marina. The whistling of the rigging of hundreds of yachts brought to mind a banshee rave. A banshee rave with the volume turned up to 11.

We’d nearly reached the end of our pontoon and I was dangling over the side all ready with the fore line, fantasising about dipping the tip of my finger into the creamy head of my first velvety pint of Guinness, putting it to my lips and sucking off the…(enough already with the beer porn – ed.), when things went a little too quiet from the back of the boat. I looked back to see Andrew’s bum sticking up in the air as he desperately tried to restart the dead engine. Again and again he pulled the starter. No good. Off came the engine cover and he went to work with whatever tools were to hand, namely one oil-stained rubber glove, an empty can of coke and a bungee. I stayed at the prow and kept a nervous look out.

I’d noticed fairly quickly that the wind was pushing us backwards out of the marina and into the path of the ferry, which had started its own engines. A quick glance up at the barnacle-studded concrete ferry dock assured me that all the pasengers were on board and it wouldn’t be long before the ship set sail. Black diesel smoke poured from the exhaust. The ship’s engines roared. Its horn blew. I shat.

However hard he tried, Andrew could not get the engine started and we were drifting closer to the ferry, which by now was juddering menacingly. I picked up an old boathook and waved it feebly in the general direction of the ship, whose white steel flank was now towering above us, arse-clenchingly close. Would I be able to fend off from it with my little wooden stick? Before I could be driven to the brink of madness by the obvious answer to this question, I noticed two black harbourmaster launches steaming out of the marina towards us. The ferry bellowed and began to back out. Andrew painted the air blue with pirate curses. I prayed to Cthulu. Suddenly the two little boats were alongside, and had both made fast to us, one to starboard, the other at the bow. They gunned their engines and slid us out of danger. I pried my fingers one by one from the side wires and broke into an impromptu rendition of The Sound Of Music.

It wasn’t long before we were safely tied up in the marina. One the of harbourmaster launches had disappeared silently before I could say anything, so I gasped and spluttered my thanks to the second weathered old fella. He smiled wryly, ran a huge hand through his salt-spiked hair and rumbled “It’s not a problem madam. We thought your predicament was most amusing, but only like to watch people struggle for so long”.

Oh, we laughed.

So you see, that’s why I love sai…oh. Bugger. That was the wrong story.

Santa T and me

*I once saw a small motorboat called, and I shit you not, Cirrhosis of the River. That’s all I have to say about that really, because I think no further words are needed.

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