Careful, now...

 I did a podcast last week. It was an American literature 'n' rock 'n' roll podcast, at 5.30 C.S.T. That's 11.30 at night for non-American viewers. So far, so rock 'n' roll. 

It was fun. I mean, it's not gone live yet, so I can't tell to what degree I sound like a mad man, but I'm sure it'll be fine. At one point during the show, Mallory - she's called Mallory, get over it - told me she'd looked me up on the internet. Actual research was going into this, a degree of professional interest I'd not previously encountered. I do research. Even for this podcast, which was meant to be me talking about my "practice", I'd made several pages of notes, just in case an important name didn't spring immediately to the tip of my tongue. Ultimately, I didn't use any of the prep, but I like the idea it's there if I need it. I'd researched Mallory a small amount too. Her book, The Only Living Girl in Chicago, gets great reviews. 

"I read some of your blog..." she said. 

Casually dropping it in there. 

I. Read. Your. Blog. 

It was only afterwards I thought about it. She'd read my blog. Okay. Where's the natural place to start with a blog. How about the last entry? The first one you encounter when you follow the link. And the first page you see is The Yellow Pages. 

It's a blog about my writing a piss diary. A diary  about how many times a day I needed to urinate during a short period of time (about four days) where I felt obliged to go to the toilet more often than usual. I'd tried to make it amusing - the writing, not the pissing - but I got a series of alarmed private message from friends saying "for God's sake look after yourself!"

That was the one she'd read. That was the frame she had for the interview: The Thoughts of Sir Pissalot. Chuckles 'n' chat with Sprinkles the Clown. An audience with Lord Slackbladder. 

She must have been amazed I made it through the introduction without excusing myself for a rendezvous with Madame Porcelain. 

I should probably rethink the nonsense I write on here. This isn't how professional writers talk about themselves. They're all about the brand. About success. They're aspirational figures now. The days of the desperate, boozed up writer, in his threadbare cardigan, battering away at Remington the size of a sofa, a bottle of whiskey and a saucerful of fag ash his only friends, are long gone. Now they're sat in a cafe or an open plan kitchen, in a crisp, white shirt and flashing a crisp, white smile. There's a coffee cup in front of them but no coffee in it. Coffee stains and, besides, it's bad for you. 

The focus on the struggle, on the unpaid years of effort, of the painstaking attempts at honing your craft, and the damage done to your body, your bank balance, your address book, are no longer sexy. People just want to see you're doing well because if you're doing well you must be good. People aren't going to pay you for bad art, are they? That would be crazy. 

Henceforth this blog is going to be an unceasing campaign of victories, a history as though written by the winners. 

I made a souffle the other day. Got it right, first time. It was delicious. I expected no less.