Well, my squealliness about getting an agent managed to abate enough for me to get some writing done, which is handy, because this week I had to give every penny I have (and a fair few others besides) to the tax man. Cue phone call to my bank saying 'Err, I know it *looked* like I was quite well off but all that money has been taken by the government so pretty please can I have an overdraft extension.'
Luckily, it appears to be press-party season, so I can maintain a suitably champagne and cocktail filled existence whilst keeping my expenditure to a minimum. Next week, I've got the London News Review launch, the Haynes' Sex Manual launch, and a party for sex website Truffle.me.uk. Well, OK, in all likelihood there won't be champagne or cocktails at any of the above, but I'll have an excuse to wear my glittery shoes at least once, so I can live out my Sex and the City aspirations.
Indeed, PRs seem to be more than happy to make my life as comfortable as possible. Earlier this week, I had a package turn up containing Baileys, Sambuca and a shot glass, courtesy of Vielle, who decided to celebrate the launch of their new lube by sending out 'Slippery Nipple' cocktail ingredients to journalists. I approve of this method of PR.
I've also been sent a Slightest Touch orgasm machine (you attach it to your ankle and it apparently stimulates acupressure points to give you orgasms). OK, this won't actually save me any money because I've got a perfectly serviceable hand that can give myself orgasms, but it makes a change from the usual vibrators (though they're very nice too) - will report back on whether it's any cop once I've tested it.
Now, if only I can persuade my landlady, the gas board, the electricity board and the counci tax people that they should give me PR freebies, I'll be laughing. Sadly, I think the likelihood is slim, so I'll be having a seemingly glam existence then going back to a freezing flat and shivering. I'm even considering giving up smoking, partly as a result of those utterly icky (and thus brilliant) ads showing fat leaching out of cigarettes, partly because Dr Pam Spurr has been nagging me to give up for several months and partly because I found myself searching the flat for spare change today to buy a pack of fags and thought 'this is pathetic and deeply expensive.' OK, and I guess also because I know it's really bad for me and one in three smokers die from it but I love smoking, so that really doesn't seem like enough justification (addict, me? Course not...)
Anyway, as a result of scary tax things, I've been throwing myself into work to pay the bills. Had another article to do for the Star this week - this time on foreplay - or rather, sexplay, 'cos the word 'foreplay' impies you can only do it before sex rather than before, during , after or instead of actual shagging. It ties into this week's release of the Lovers' Guide: Sex Play video I wrote.
I've landed a new commission writing product blurbs for Firebox - first one, strangely enough, on a sex-related product.
And I've written a chunk of my book - though less than I'd have liked to because I've been reading as 'displacement activity', wherein I've sat at my computer thinking 'I really should write some of my book,' and then decided that it would be infinitely more useful to read a novel instead. Then tidy the house. Then order my shopping. Then eat some biscuits. Then sit back at my computer until I can think of other displacement activities (hmm, maybe I should write a book about displacement activities?) So, anyway, as a result, I've read the deeply warped Jim Giraffe, which is quite possibly the filthiest book I've ever read; not in a wank-material way (well, for me anyway) but the author, Daren King (who's actually really sweet and soft-spoken) manages to fit in almost every perversion it's possible to whilst appearing to write a book about a man haunted by a ghost giraffe. It's definitely surreal.
I've also learned a load of stuff about poker that I never realised I needed to know but was nonetheless fascinating, thanks to the lovely Louise Wener whe sent me a copy of her fab book The Big Blind (complete with an inscription saying that if I didn't like it, then actually, it was written by her mate Mil Millington and she just bunged her name on the front.) However, I loved it so she retains the authorship on that one. It's incredibly honest (admitting to the satisfaction that can be gained from a good session of nipple-hair removal) and dead funny, poignant and all those other things that make a good read.
Despite now getting closer to getting published, I still get all excited about talking to 'proper authors'. Given a choice between spending a night at the Oscars or a night at some London Book Fair authors' do, I'd choose the latter in a shot. Then again, that could be because it's infinitely more likely that I'd actually get to go to the latter. Realism in fantasy; who'd have thought it. Oooh, which reminds me of a fab new site BoutiqueBoutique that helps women make their fantasies come true.
But, digression aside, I'm beginning to realise how it is that all those blurbs on the back of novels come about. It would seem that every author in the world knows every other author in the world. So who knows, maybe I'll get jaded if I end up in the secret author clan. Though it hasn't happened with the sex world yet, so it's more likely I'll just be squeally all the time.
However, squealliness doesn't pay the bills so I should get on to working my way through the list of 'things to do' that I utterly failed to do this week; writing the positions guides for Loving Angles, subbing about a gazillion stories on Cliterati and replying to endless emails. So, it's Saturday night, it's 11pm and I have a night of writing ahead of me. I must be getting old, because the idea appeals way more than spending the night partying hard in some club. And at least I won't have to queue to get a drink.
Posted by emilyd at February 01, 2004 12:27 AM