On the advice of an old friend, an old, old friend, I’ve finally decided to start keeping a blog again. I was still in my early twenties when I first met him. He still had hair and I looked like a Motley Crue roadie. It was an undignified look at best. But, as is often the case when I use this platform, I digress. The last time I blogged I think I was still waiting on Cross Country Murder Song to be published, I was almost certainly still in London with my then girlfriend and my dog. None of those things are true of me now. The book was published, certainly, and very well received too, I even took a meeting with a real film star’s production partner who bought me coffee and eggs (which I was too nervous to eat, though I did neck the coffee the way men who come out of the desert go at water) and I even got to go to the theatre to see said film star perform on a minute stage. Even though they passed on my book, I have to say that the film star was tremendous. I went in determined not to like him or the production (petty professional jealousy, it’s what I do best) and left with my jaw properly dropped. He was immense and had the torso of a young Tarzan, no wonder the critics cooed.
Anyway, that moment’s passed, as has the relationship and, for the foreseeable, my life in London. That’s more of an occasional thing now where I appear to work and attend meetings and tell my agent (she’s something new in my life too) that the new book’s going very well, which is almost true. I still pull out of there on the train at night and feel something that might be the rub of regret as I leave, but I can’t be sure. It’s early still and a new city alone is a lot to take in. So, for the handful of you who are interested, I’ll be scratching my head in wonder here a lot more. The book’s over halfway done and the agent thinks it’s ‘brilliant’, but then she is my agent, plus she’s just had a baby and might just be feeling kind or woozy or struggling mentally as I understand a mewling child takes it right out of you.
On a happier note (not to detract from the joy of childhood and the beauty it brings, etc.), I’m busy, which stops me sitting at my desk and wondering how often I can fuck up my life before someone turns up at the door and hands me a revolver (that’s right, I’m living in Sweden. I am not). But as much as this is a release, I’ll try not to make it all about wounded introspection. Over the past few weeks, I’ve spent time talking to Kiss (all of them), Soundgarden (ditto, Chris Cornell resisted for a while, but he too soon gave in to my Welsh charms) and an admirable young man called Winston McCall who sings (I say sings, he admits that he can’t) with a band called Parkway Drive. Before their new album, Atlas, was sent to me, I didn’t feel one way or the other about them, but there’s something magical about that record and about their approach to life that had me totally entranced.
For those of you closer to my age who are now appalled that I like a band they’ve never heard of, the good news is that the new Kiss record, Monster, is vibrant and exciting and packed with songs. Paul Stanley will tell you that it’s the one of the best things they’ve ever done, as usual, but this time you might want to take that on board. Admittedly, there’s one song on there about cunnilingus that is as blunt as a ball peen hammer, but the rest of the record simply flies. I’m still taken aback by it. And on that happy note, I’ll get back to filing copy and wondering how the hero of my latest book will make it out of this alive. Though, as readers of CCMS will know, I’m always happy to leave my leading men dead in the wash, bloody corpses floating way out to sea. But then we all have days like that, I’m sure.