November 30, 2001: I completed Not The Greatest Story Ever Told, my shithouse NaNoWriMo "novel":

November 30, 2011: I finished Not The Greatest Story Ever Told II!

There's been a major word drought since I wrote that book. I've oscillated between "what kind of dickhead writes about themselves like that?" over-exposed deer-in-headlights-let's-hide-from-the-world-forever terror, and the "you're no writer, you just got lucky coz there weren't many Fat Girl Loses Lard memoirs at the time and now you got NOTHING!" feelings of utter fraudulence.

As a result everything I've written over the past four years has been torn up in a huff. That is, when I managed to write anything at all. I've pretty much been too shitscared to even try.

In late October there were the usual NaNoWriMo mutterings on Twitter and I realised it was ten years since I last completed the 50,000 words in 30 days madness. I thought I'd give it another go. I confessed my plans to my pal Naomi, who I got to know this year through Up & Running. She is a proper author of multiple novels! She was awesomely encouraging and said, "Just make sure you don't make this another stick to beat yourself up with".

She used a great running analogy: I'd been doing the writing equivalent of sitting on the couch - feck all activity for years. Going straight into a novel would be like going straight from the couch to marathon training. I understood perfectly - knowing me, I'd push too hard too soon and bust my writerly joints, declare it all too much, then wind up back on the couch doing nowt!

She had a cool idea that was more like training for a 5K - she kindly sent me a copy of A Writer's Book Of Days, a book of daily writing prompts. So instead of a terrible novel, I wrote terrible short stories in November.

I guess that means it doesn't really count as a NaNoWriMo effort, but to me it felt like a bloody huge triumph. The writing was so bad I'd snort at the screen with laughter, but I remembered what we always say to our 5K Course runners: don't worry about the quality of the workout - the goal is simply to get the fucker done.

Since November I've kept up the daily prompts. I have no goal in mind other than to just keep writing and keep building the muscle. Who knows what happens after that but it's a good start. I'm also approximately 137% less grumpy now that I'm writing again.

Remember how I wrote that ol’ book? It’s almost two years since Transworld signed me up. The whole publishing process has been the most mental rollercoaster ride and it feels strange to have barely mentioned it, especially when I documented all the other rollercoasters of the past eight years. I was quiet during the book deal and book writing process due to fear of cocking it up then quiet once it was published for fear of sounding like a self-promoting smug git.

But it has been a unique, once-in-a-lifetime experience and I need to get down some of these memories before they fall out of my head. There’s so many details in the WNP archives that I’d never have remembered had I not blogged them at the time. I know there’s only three people reading WNP now thanks to my criminal neglect (and that’s not because I’m too smug and happy to blog, as it has been suggested; just sideswiped by bastard job, etc etc) but I hope you guys won’t mind me wittering on about this author stuff.

Every time I’ve tried to write on WNP this year I’ve been kind of paralysed with self-consciousness so I’m going to start over and remember how I just used to write about stupid things that happened in my life for the pure hell of it. Woohoo!

To get started here is a wee thing I wrote for Trashionista about life after publishing.

. . .

Sometimes it’s still hard to believe I’m a proper published author. There’s a dent in the living room ceiling from a champagne cork, popped on the day I signed the deal for Dietgirl, yet apart from that my life looks much the same. I get up, I go to work, I swear at the computer, I come home; I watch University Challenge.

But then I get to have all these delicious Author Moments. Like skulking around doing interviews. I run home at lunchtime to chat to Spanish radio stations; I yak to Australia in the dead of night. I sneak into empty offices, hoping the boss doesn’t catch me as I tell yet another journalist how I gained all that weight.

“Nutella!” I hiss down the line, “Yes. That’s right. I used to eat it from the jar with a spoon. S-P-O-O-N!”

Then there’s all the book stalking. I remember the very first sighting – 23rd December, 1PM, face out and snuggled up to Gordon Ramsay’s bio at the local WH Smith. I took photos from five different angles then stood there poking the cover, making sure it wasn’t a mirage.

I’ve managed to curb the habit now, but for weeks I was drawn into every passing bookshop with the same irresistible lure I once felt for the dessert bar at Pizza Hut. My mood soared or slumped depending on whether or not the book was stocked, where it was placed and/or the number of copies. When my publisher told me that ASDA had taken it on, I dragged my husband Gareth around three different stores to witness this first hand. The first two stores didn’t have it, and the third had an empty space on the shelf with a plastic label beneath: Amazing Advents, Shauna Reid.

“They don’t have it!” I whimpered.

“They might have sold out!”

“Or maybe they changed their minds and never got it in the first place!”

“This is a very tumultuous time for you, isn’t it?” said Gareth. “And consequently, for me also.”

Best of all has been the lovely surprise of reader emails. Again, I’ll always remember the first, from Verity in Warwickshire. I nearly wrote back, Mum? Is that you? I couldn’t believe someone had read the book without being nagged by me to do so.

Since then I’ve had warm emails, funny emails and emails so heartbreaking that I drip snot and tears on the keyboard. I’ve even had a few confessions: “OMG, I thought I was the only one who ate Nutella with a spoon!”

At the York Castle Museum.
The weekend was great – cheers for your suggestions!

Recently we were sitting in the car out the front of my dear in-law's house. We were running late as usual, so Gareth had to write on the Mother's Day card before we went inside.

GARETH:  Sorry we're late.

MOTHER-IN-LAW-MARY:  Is everything alright!?

G:  Yes.

MILM:  Are you sure!?

G:  Yes!

MILM:  But you were just sitting there the car for ages! Were you two having a fight?

G:  No!

MILM: You were fighting, weren't you?

G:  Nooo! I was writing on your card!

MILM:  Are you sure you weren't fighting!?

I was somewhat miffed that we've reached a point of togetherness where if we sit in a car for a long time, people assume we're having an argument. As opposed to assuming we're desperately feeling each other up, just one more time before the soup is on the table.

Meanwhile, we're still fixing up the bloody flat. Gareth has spent all weekend painting the doors and skirting boards in the bedroom. My efforts with the gloss were crooked and shite, despite holding my breath. And I really tried hard, as I'm sort of bristling from that incident in January 1998 that I've only mentioned 72 times when The Mothership and Rhi were re-upholstering a chair and I asked could I bang in a few nails and The Mothership said No and I said Why not and she paused and said, Because you don't have practical skills.

Oh yeah? Then how did I come up with the Russian Remote Hat? I brought this fuzzy wonder back from Moscow for Gareth but the Scottish winter has never been cold enough for it. Now thanks to my Practical Skills it has found a noble purpose.

In other developments, my brain went fuzzy. It happened on 2 October when I began my New Job or perhaps it was as far back as 18 June when I handed in the book manuscript. All the clarity and zest absconded and I've been unable to focus ever since. New Job is almost six months old but I still call it New Job as that makes the constant panic still seem appropriate, and nothing to do with any rubbishness on my part. I've also done a lot of writing and talking to pimp Dietgirl and I don't know how I got through that without drooling on anyone. It's been a really mad, wonderful ride and I wanted to bore you with the details, all eleven of you. But whenever I've sat down at the screen I couldn't concentrate so I ended up Facebooking or twitting on Twitter.

RESULT: brain cells further eroded. Witold wrote recently, Oh boy, there are so many places on the web now to say almost nothing in so many ways.

It feels like I'm trapped inside something, maybe a giant plastic ball. It's opaque so I can sort of see the world outside but not clearly and I'm poking and prodding the curvy walls, wanting to shout about my predicament but not being able to find the words. I think maybe I'm a little burned out, as much as I hate to use such a wanky phrase. But overall life is great, just really freaky busy; so sometimes it's hard to figure out what's important and what's to be done. Right now I am reading lots of books, to remind me that words are good and sexy and nice to be around. I hope to form proper sentences soon!

It's the love that dare not speak its name: woman and teapot. Behold the Brown Betty, a Christmas gift from the in-laws. Made in England, sensible and sturdy; its a vessel that would steer one through great Wars and Depressions. Or just perch regally on the crappy IKEA coffee table of some modern-day nitwit.

(Does anyone know where to find a good tea cozy these days?!)

So my book officially came out yesterday. I went stalking through Edinburgh's bookshops, just to make sure it really existed. And it did!

That is, if you could spot it amongst the ten trillion Paul McKenna books. I Can Make You Thin is his current blockbuster. How can I compete with such a bold celebrity promise? Maybe I should have called my book I Can't Make You Thin, But You Can Giggle At The Incompetent Adventures Of A Nobody.

It was an exciting day. I hid behind a stack of books at Waterstones for twenty minutes, staking out the New Year's Resolutions display and summoning all my ESP powers. Pick it up! Somebody, pick it up pleeease! Nooo! Not the bloody McKenna!

So my ESP stinks, but I was happy just to be there. I went home, made some pasta and bawled while chopping the onions. I think I was a wee bit overwhelmed and emotional that all this writing and editing and insanity actually led to a finished product. The road is loooong… with many a wiiiiinding turn. If anyone is still out there reading this steaming pile of neglect — thank you. It was a rather lonely and miserable day 7.5 years ago when I started WNP; it seemed like a new-fangled way for the inept to connect. I ended up finding so many good people and rediscovering how much fun it was to hammer away at a keyboard.

To celebrate publication day in hardcore style, the teapot made its debut and I made a batch of pikelets, those stumpy Australian pancake-y treats. Turns out they're the same thing as Scotch Pancakes, but I prefer to call them pikelets because it's one of the greatest words to say in an Aussie accent… POIKE-LETS!

Happy new year, groovy groovers!

Dearly beloveds! Over on Dietgirl I've running a fanbloodytastic photo Scavenger Hunt contest. There's ten copies of my book to be won, hot off the presses!

There's also a bonus Grand Prize for the most creative entry. Forgive the pimpery but it's not really pimping if you're giving it away for FREE, is it? I know there are some mighty talented and imaginative folks out there, so why not give it a red hot go?