I very much enjoy the fine nuanced work of novelist Donal Ryan, but occasionally he does look like he's contemplating the best way to deal with one of his men who has betrayed him.
A phone call from my agent asking if I've heard whether I'm up for the Bad Sex award.
"But how could they possibly know?" I ask.
"It's the bad sex in fiction award, John," he says.
Pause.
"Of course. I knew that."
When she asked "Firstly, are you okay?" my immediate response was of course "No, Holly, I'm very much not okay. The novel is dead and Colm Toibin still thinks it's his birthday and hasn't left my house in two days."
I see Ryan Tubridy compared getting paid in advance to do events in car show rooms as being equivalent to a book deal. But I don't remember being paid to write a book then not writing it. Have I been doing book deals wrong all this time?
I feel a certain amount of sympathy for John Boyne. As research for one of my novels I had to investigate modes of vehicular transport. I inadvertently took a description of a vehicle from something called Mario Kart.
We've all been there.
Having been subject to a vile hoax, at least now I have the small consolation that John Boyne considers me to be the world's greatest living writer.
I feel a warm glow.
It's not unlike having the comfort of a very tiny hot water bottle.
Watched Normal People with Colm Toibin (because the cinemas are closed). Colm didn't think there was enough shame in it. I had to break the news to him that the avocado toast generation doesn't know what shame is.
-Michael Colgan, with his non-apology in the Sindo, eh?
-A rag that cossets a so called "elite", then lets an odious member of that "elite" write narcissistic indefensible shite which you have to pay to read.
-Pint?
-Nah, I feel sick.
EDITOR: John, these pages you've faxed me are blank.
ME: But of course. It's a repudiation of the novel form. A conscious deconstructive act.
EDITOR: You sent me the wrong document again, didn't you?
(PAUSE)
ME: Yes. Yes I did.
Conor McGregor may call for a lockdown, but I shall only take such demands seriously when I see a ranting, bare chested, blood spattered Fintan O'Toole call for the same.
A timely grammar lesson before the schools reopen tomorrow.
It's "I'm excited ABOUT my children taking part in the greatest mass infection event in Irish history" not "I'm excited FOR my children taking part in the greatest mass infection event in Irish history".
Discussing fiction writing with Colm Toibin.
"I don't know which is better, John. The almost psychic omnipresence of a dead father, or the actual live presence of an embittered mother."
"Why not put in both?"
"Ooh, nice."
"And a funny bit with a dog."
In the words of W.B. Yeats, from a little known verse in an early draft of The Second Coming:
"I'm so excited, and I just can't hide it. I'm about to lose control and I think I like it."
#BGEIBA
Went to see Star Wars the Rise of Skywalker with Colm Toibin based on a resounding endorsement from Paul Howard.
Since seeing it I have politely declined Paul's wine recommendations for Christmas.
"Apparently light can zap the virus. Maybe we could all swallow pen lights or 'stick them where the sun don't shine' as the saying goes - which is a pity when you think about it because sunlight would probably help cure-- stop laughing, Colm, I'm trying to be serious here."
Imagine writing for free for the sake of "exposure", when one can simply lie naked in the cold and expire from a similarly titled malady? Both paths are equally undesirable.
I very much enjoy the fine nuanced work of novelist Donal Ryan, but occasionally he does look like he's contemplating the best way to deal with one of his men who has betrayed him.
Colm Toibin has come around to mine to practise his lifetime achievement acceptance speech for tonight's Irish Book Awards. When I told him that a clenched fist and a shout of "Wexford representing!" may not suffice he looked a little downcast.
Here is Roddy Doyle, the gang's accountant. He'll eventually do a panicked runner to the airport with a suitcase filled with money and two pairs of jocks.
Here is Sebastian Barry, the old beaten down, rumpled, yet still attractive detective who has made it his life's work to take down Donal Ryan's organisation.
Went for coffee with Roddy Doyle. I confess I was feeling rather glum, and it showed.
"Who died?" Roddy chuckled.
Then his face darkened, and he clutched my arm with undue fervour. There was a strange hunger in his eyes.
"No, seriously. John. Who died?"
-I ate those plums.
-What plums?
-The one's that were in the icebox. Forgive me. They were delicious, so sweet and so cold.
-Did nobody die? Why are we talking about plums?
-Do you like wheelbarrows?
-Why?
-So much depends on them.
-Fuck off.
A big thank you to the Guardian for accidentally letting us know that Sebastian Barry is the new laureate for Irish fiction.
I now have to clean some coffee off my floor.
And here's Martin McDonagh, the brash ambitious young loudmouth of the gang who nobody likes because he's a brash ambitious young loudmouth.
Basically Martin McDonagh.
Flight attendant: Any doctors on this flight?
Dad: That could have been you.
Son: Not now dad.
Dad: Why not now?
Son: We're in a Pat McCabe novel and you're a projection of my darkest self.
Dad: Kill them all.
Went to see Justice League with Colm Toibin.
"It made no sense," I protested.
"Life makes no sense, John."
"But a work of art must have narrative logic. No one wears their underpants outside their trousers."
"Martin Amis does."
"True."
Here is Colm Toibin, the leader of a rival gang, wondering how best he may place himself in order to take advantage of the possible split in Donal Ryan's organisation.
EDITOR: John, these pages you've sent me are blank.
ME: But of course. It's a repudiation of the novel form. A conscious deconstructive act.
EDITOR: You sent me the wrong document again, didn't you?
(PAUSE)
ME: Yes. Yes I did.