Deadlines and red lines
Think of all the mediocre fiction that Twitter has saved us from. As a writer I find that I’m able to justify spending hours on the microblogging site where WAGS and Trumps go to war. It’s an addiction, especially when I can get away with farting out crap like this:
OMG my new fear is if Dumbo flew into my window and broke his neck and now he's lying on my front lawn and my neighbour says what was that bang and i say nothing and now its 4am and im creeping outside the tip with a really heavy binbag wearing my new floppy yellow hat
— Andrew Shanahan (@nervouscrying) September 19, 2019
If you multiply the hours of procrastination by the number of writers then you’re probably talking about a million titles per year that Twitter saves us from. Let us be thankful. For me Twitter is just a way of plugging myself directly into the unfolding insanity of Brexit with its deadlines and red lines. Again, that’s an addiction. How I yearn for the days when news was tremendously boring, but in reality I know that it has always been this scintillating, it’s just never been done in full view of the public before.
Fortunately, when it comes to my own deadlines I’m a pro. Never missed one yet and I never intend to. There’s just something in me that won’t let me even contemplate missing one. I get a really curious line of sweat on my neck when the thought occurs. My only greater fear is if I was on a stage without knowing my lines. Consequently, when I swore blind that the second draft of the book would be done by the end of September I disappeared off to Devon for a week (sorry Em:) and pulled a series of 14 hour days to get it done.
It’s actually turning into something I quite like. It finally has a name… Before and After: the Shut In at the End of the World. I keep changing the capitalisation every time I write it, so I should probably decide on one version and stick to it. The book is currently with a number of beta readers who have very kindly said they’d read it and give me feedback. It’s a nervy wait. The feeling of exposure reminds me of the time when I stood naked in the front window of the house spread out like a starfish stuck to the glass. I stayed there until our neighbour saw me and ran to tell his mum. I was 35*.
One other piece of news: I’ve written a short script for 2000AD’s Future Shocks which draws heavily from the horror of HP Lovecraft. If it gets knocked back I’ll stick the script on here for you to enjoy.
Finally – if you haven’t heard Ghosteen by Nick Cave yet, then give it a listen as it’s amazing. Also, I’m really, really enjoying Quarehawk by Michael Walsh, which also features the Mancunian poet Mike Garry – here’s The Visitor, which is lovely.
Naturally, I had to find him on Twitter…
All done. Beautiful and moving. If this is pan-European chamber folk then sign me up. Something really jarring but wonderful about hearing someone singing about a dad away working on the motorway. 5 BAGS OF POPCORN (OUT OF FIVE).
— Andrew Shanahan (@nervouscrying) October 8, 2019
*That’s a true story but I was actually 6. Don’t ask me why I did it, I was fucking odd.
