Rupert Grint kisses gynaecological cancer

No, really. Sort of. Rupert Grint provided a big old smackeroo in a confusing-yet-presumably-supportive gesture for The Eve Appeal. He also wrote some words and signed his own name, so NER to those of you who didn’t thing he could. I’m not really sure why The Eve Appeal decided that selling kiss-prints would be a good fundraising campaign for gynecological cancer: for me the ideas of Rupert Grint’s ‘kiss’ and cancer of the cervix really don’t sit well together. Even if it IS Rupert Grint.

Before I do an accidental rant, let’s move on. I’m a bit about Harry Potter, at the mo’. With Harry Potter you get everything: magic, adventure, awesome ginger humans and hilarious puns.

Why So Sirius?

It’s not the story, particularly. The 32.6 minutes I’ve spent obsessing (look, I’m busy OK?) has been focused on people obsessed by Harry Potter. Particularly this guy. Half the time the people obsessed by everyone’s-favourite-annoying-fictional-wizard and his cast of much-less-annoying-yet-sadly-still-fictional-wizard-friends-and-foes are more interesting that any of the books or movies. Especially the fifth one. They’re so much more IMAGINATIVE. JK Rowling may have given the world Lord Voldemort but Violet_quill gave us the hilarious and x-rated Lord Voldemort’s Diary, Bridget Jones style. Read it. Love it. Then immediately move on to the Potter Puppet Pals ‘Wizard Angst’:

And once you’ve done that I suggest you get yourself over to the Harry Potter Tattoos tumblr site and immediately start deciding the most ostentatious way in which you would like to have your love of Harry Potter Ron Weasley etched permanently onto your skin. Then buy an ACTUAL wand. Then watch all the movies back-to-back while reading the books and listening to the soundtrack. An HP cacophony.

Then have a nap, get over it, and read The Hunger Games. It’s the next big thing don’tcha know. Stephanie Meyer totally bloody loved them, but don’t let that put you off. And don’t worry if you can’t be arsed to read it, the first one’s already being made into a movie starring some highly-sexualised teens (just to keep your attention) but also Lenny Kravitz and Woody Harrelson.

Be there or be totally behind the times.


When I started writing this post I had a point but then I forgot it.

Orrite. Been a while. I’ve been busy having my brother come to visit getting farted on at regular intervals by a 17-year old child who is APPARENTLY related to me in some way (as if: I don’t have siblings, I have minions) and watching horses have curved metal rods nailed to their feet.

The Authors have been all excitable since my last post, all doing things and then blogging about them like it’s going out of fashion.

1. Jonathan Stroud Went To New Orleans, Fails To Sound Enthused. It’s an easy mistake to make: you’ve come back from some important Writery gig, you’ve schmoozed and want to let you new schmoozees know how much you appreciated everything they put together. The only problem? YOU’RE FUCKING TIRED! You just want to get your slippers on, take a long dump and then sit on the sofa in your pants watching adverts for the new Hermionie Granger movie. Crying, probably, because it’s the last one and you know that the rest of your life will be meaningless thereafter. Anything you write now is going to sound forced, dull, lacking your usual sparkle and finesse. Not bad you understand, it will simply fail to convey any point of interest whatsoever.  I’ve never read any of this guy’s work or seen any interviews with him or in any way researched enough to make an informed opinion (if you’ve come on the look out for informed opinions then boy are you in the wrong place!) but he sounds like a bit of a bran-flakes-for-breakfast kind of chap: inoffensive, well-meaning, nice and yet somehow unsatisfying… My advice: sleep first, Stroud; write second.

2. Derek Landy Finishes Another Novel, Has Some Emotions About It. That’s right kids, Valkyrie’s next adventure is all finished. And Derek’s having a mid-series crisis about it. It must be tough for him, poor lamb: all those successful published YA novels under his belt and STILL they keep coming. Luckily (for him), we like Derek so we won’t mock further. We like how he created Valkyrie, kick-ass female protagonist that she is (though admittedly in thrall to her male mentor). She even – shocker! – totally has frequent conversations with other (named) female characters which – another shocker! – frequently aren’t about some guy (although aforementioned male mentor does show up with irritating regularity). There are problems, of course. Derek Landy neglected to call his successful series of YA urban fantasy books after the (female) protagonist and instead – mistakenly, I believe – called them after the (male) mentor. There are other things but hey, go read them, find out for yourselves; can’t expect ME to do all the legwork.

3. Nail Gaiman Did Some Reasonably Cool Stuff, UNreasonably Expects People To Care. Ugh. Damn you Neil Gaiman, I’ve had it with all your Being Impressive. Try to stop the constant boasting and write another award-winning novel, why don’t you?

4. Lucy Christopher Still Alive, Still Not My Stalker. The main point of interest here is that YA author Lucy Christopher still hasn’t expressed a desire to become my internet stalker. I don’t get it. She’s good though – she writes words in CAPITALS sometimes, and it’s almost like she’s a real human who gets EXCITED about real life things such as signing a copy of her book for Markus Zusak, author of The Book Thief. THE ACTUAL AUTHOR OF THE ACTUAL BOOK THIEF! Sorry for the repetition but I didn’t think you were impressed enough the first time around. What? You haven’t read The Book Thief? FOOL! It is all lovely and unusual and you should get a copy from your local library immediately.

One thing The Authors are teaching me is that Being An Author is chock full of Going To All The Places and Speaking To All The People. They’re off all over, ALL the damn time! Who pays for their travel? Where do they stay? Do they compensate for their carbon emissions? Do they buy lunch or take their own sandwiches? I’m a fan of the packed lunch myself  (I always like to know where my next bit of food is coming from). Anyway, all this speaking and networking would be something of a challenge for old Sasperella. Talking? To humans? No thanks love – avoiding all face-to-face human contact is why they invented the internet isn’t it? That and procrastination.

When I started this I had a point I wanted to make, but I’ve forgotten it. Attention span of a goldfish = requirement for failing at being a novelist.

Smuggity Smugface Fails at Words

Day three. My latest imaginary boyfriend is Mark Ronson – he gets on better with the imaginary cat.

But back to “Day three”…

I went to bed pretty smug last night. Not just smug, actually: Smuggity. I was Smuggity as hell. Neil Gaiman-esque.

I’d had a good session (of writing, don’t be filthy) in the evening and felt like I’d cruised to my word count without problems, having written in some good interaction between my characters, solid dialogue, plodding-but-actual tension building towards a definite scene climax and revearsal. I keep calling it the ‘Wronski Feint’, but I think that’s actually something from Harry Potter. You know, like in Quidditch… *Ahem* AS IF I know about Quidditch tactics. What do you think I am, some kind of loser? Oh. Hang on…

Anyway, even though I keep calling it by the wrong(ski) name I *am* actually thinking of a real thing. I think. I’m thinking of a term Mark Gatiss used in A History of Horror to describe a particular kind of tension release and revearsal of expectations in horror movies (used by and named after some director or other). An example of the kind of situation it describes is, say, where a woman is walking down a dark alley and hears footsteps coming after her; she quickens her pace; the footsteps also quicken; she breaks into a run; suddenly there’s a hand on her shoulder (moment of maximum tension) BUT in a revearsal of expecations (is it the monster/murderer?) it is revealed that it’s just the friend she’s on her way to meet. That kind of thing.

I’m getting carried away. The point was supposed to be that I’d done a day’s-worth of good writing, felt highly pleased with myself, greased my moustache (I don’t have one but if I did it would be like Dali’s), and did a lot of “faw faw-ing” before going to bed a confirmed Smuggity.

Tonight, I write nothing (to do with my story). I’m not even properly procrastinating. I just have absolutely no plans whatsoever to write. And do you know why? BECAUSE I DID WELL YESTERDAY AND TO CONTINUE TODAY WOULD BE TO INVITE FAILURE! Deep, right? Like, totally.

What I want to know is this: who the hell invited my inner bloody editor to take part in this project? I thought I’d sent the snarky bitch off on holiday for a month; why the hell is she back so soon?

Let’s do a count: 1700 tonight + 1700 that I’ll fail to write tomorrow night because of  bonfirenightbrilliance + 1700 on hangoversaturday = 6800 words on Sunday.

Probs well easy, that. Right? Right guys?