Tour Blog #2!

Ah, Australia, land of sun, surf, and bad soap operas. You have always been missing something, haven’t you? As a country. A landmass. An entity. And now, for twelve whole days, you finally HAVE what you’ve been missing. You have ME.


It’s hot here, down at the Gold Coast, but not overly hot. Not oppressively hot. It’s a kind of heat that will melt you if given the chance, but with a judicious use of shade and breeze and air conditioning, you can hold off the melting and walk around with a smile and sunglasses, thinking you’re the coolest creature who ever strolled. And I am.

I arrived at the Somerset Literary Festival on Wednesday morning- pulled up to an actual red carpet with around one thousand cheering Skulduggery readers, just waiting for a glimpse of their golden god (me). I stepped out of a 1928 Chevy and stood there, grinning, arms outstretched, basking in thoroughly deserved and long overdue adulation. Men wept. Women swooned. It was a good day to be a golden god.

Escorted around campus by the ever-vigilant Laurence, I was taken to the Great Hall, where I was magnificent in front of 700 students. Oh, they laughed. Oh, they cried. Oh, they adored. I was truly brilliant. In those moments, I reached a level of perfection few have glimpsed, yet alone achieved. I was so good, so moving, that one student, a beautiful girl called Mya- or, possibly, Mia- asked me if I would marry her. I said yes. We are to be married, ladies and gentlemen. It is a happy, happy day.

Mya/Mia, all I need is your second name or, indeed, the correct spelling of your first name, and then I feel that our love can truly blossom. I’m not altogether sure you were expecting me to say yes, however. Now that I think about it, I realise there is a possibility that you may not have been entirely serious when you asked. In fact, you probably weren’t. Which means I am NOT engaged.

Oh.

That’s okay. I didn’t even want to get married. I’m happy being single. I don’t need you, Mia/Mya. You OR your confusing name.

Ahem.

Nobody else asked me to marry them. I’ve done four events over the past two days, signed as much as I could, had a laugh and met some truly frightening readers, but no one else asked. Which is okay. That’s fine. I don’t, like… it’s not important, basically. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here for the BOOKS. They’re all that matters. Was I flattered by the proposal? Of course. Who wouldn’t be? Was I looking forward to settling down? Yes, I suppose I was. But that was a pipe dream. I was a fool to think I could be happy. Mia/Mya probably proposes to every writer she meets. What made me think that I was so special?

...

I’m better now. I don’t need your pity. SAVE YOUR PITY! SAVE IT FOR MY ENEMIES!

Tomorrow, Friday, I go to Brisbane, where I do more stuff and sign more things. And then on Saturday, it’s off to Sydney, where I can see the famous Opera House… hopefully from my hotel window, because I really don’t wanna leave my air-conditioned room.

Just had a text from my friend Laura, who is minding my house while I’m away. The dogs have torn the stuffing from their bed, apparently, and the blind on the living room window attacked her when she tried to close it. It leaped onto her head and then clattered heroically to the ground, where it lay, moaning occasionally after she kicked it. She is breaking my house. Dear lord, she is breaking my house.

Tour Blog #1!

Ah, Hong Kong. Home to, usually, seven million people. But, for a few days only, it is lucky enough to be home to seven million and ONE.

Me.


I’m sitting here in my lovely hotel room, air conditioning on, a chilled glass of Sprite beside me, and I can hear the commotion on the streets outside as the people celebrate the something. I’m not sure what. I’m fairly sure I was told, but I’ve completely forgotten. Still, I’ve learned a lot about Hong Kong over the last few days. Well, I say a “lot”, but I actually mean “very little”. I’ve been far too busy looking around to bother paying attention to insignificant little details. Even that fact about the population count came from Wikipedia.

I seem to remember, though, that today, Sunday, is when most of the maids are let off work for the day. Basically, because the people here work so hard and so much, they need maids to run the home. Almost EVERYONE has a maid, it seems. And Sunday is their day off, so they all go out onto the streets of Hong Kong and have picnics and eat lunch and chat and laugh and enjoy themselves. Maybe all that singing and chanting and banging of drums outside has something to do with that. Like I said, the details pass me by…

It’s been a nice couple of days. I’ve done a few events for the International schools here and had a blast. There are some funny, funny people living in Hong Kong- really enthusiastic readers. I think I’ve recruited more members into the Munchkin Army, which is good. Pretty soon I’ll have to start picking out the elite Munchkins to add to my Ninja Leprechaun force, and then we’ll have enough to take over the world. Then we’ll show them. Oh, then we’ll show them…

Only two weeks left until Dark Days is released in Ireland/UK. It’ll be nice to be able to talk about it openly, instead of making vague references to stuff that happens. Remember, if any of YOU have read it already, do NOT spoil anything in the comments section! I FORBID IT! And I also ORDER YOU TO SEND ME SOME CHEESE.

On Tuesday I’m heading to the Somerset Festival on Australia’s Gold Coast, then it’s a day or two in Brisbane, then Sydney, Melbourne, and over to Auckland and Wellington and then HOME. Ah, sweet, sweet Ireland, where the ladies are fair and the weather is middling. How I miss you. Do you miss me? Do you? You do? Oh Ireland, I knew you cared, I just knew it…

Bah. That’s enough. The next time I post I had better be in a grumpier mood, or this might turn into a happy blog. And we can’t have THAT, now can we?

Another post, because (one of) you demanded it!

Grrrrrr.

I have been INSTRUCTED to write another blog.

Not by my agent, not by my publicists, not by my publishers- but by one of YOU. Apparently I should stop what I am doing and write another entry for this blog right this SECOND. The only problem is, I have nothing to write about.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I have plenty to write about. It’s just that I don’t want to write about them.

Shall I talk about working on my new book? I’m almost finished the first draft, if that’s what you’re after. I’ll probably throw out half of it on the rewrite, and so give myself MORE work to do, but you don’t care about my suffering, do you? You only care about the BOOKS. I could be curled up on the floor, sweating blood and wracked with pain, but as long as I have my keyboard down there with me, YOU WOULDN’T CARE.

And before anyone asks, no, I don’t know what it’s called. And before my editor asks, no, I don’t know what it’s about. I’ll know what it’s about when I’m finished, damn it. At least I hope I will. It would be rather worrying to reach the end and realize I have no idea what I’d written. Do you want to read an excerpt? Do you want to read the opening paragraphs? Do you? Are you SURE?

Well you can’t, because I am a mean and spiteful god.

So what else will I write about in this accursed blog? My cats? They hurt me so. Pooper’s not so bad- she just walks all over the keyboard until I sit back and allow her to curl up on my chest for a half an hour of intense purring and occasional bites. But Groomer... Groomer stays around my feet, and every few minutes she’ll rear up and dig her claws into my knees, because she thinks it’s cute.

My dogs have settled in quite well. Although they are so old and arthritic I’ve had to install ramps from my back door to the ground, and from the decking area to the garden. They’re not too good with STEPS, you see, but they’ll roll down those ramps with marvelous enthusiasm.

It is quite embarrassing.

I don’t have much to say about my sister’s twins, except to comment on how cute they are, how small, and that they occasionally poo their pants. When they’re older I’m going to tease them so much about that, they have no idea. Just wait ‘til the speeches at their weddings.

I’m preparing for my Hong Kong/Australia/New Zealand tour, which will kick off next week. I don’t particularly like hot countries, and I don’t particularly like airports in hot countries, but I shall be brave, and try not to complain about the fact that I get to visit all these amazing places while my friends and family get to stay home and have normal jobs like FOOLS. Dark Days is already out over there, so that I’ll have something to sign when I visit. For everywhere else (well, for readers in Ireland and the UK) it’s out in April.

Is that it? Can I stop now? I really do have an awful lot of work to get done. I know I’m a bad blogger. I KNOW. But I can’t help it. Have you READ other people’s blogs? They’re so BORING! They say the same things, over and over and over again. Isn’t it better to say NOTHING, then repeat oneself? Isn’t it?

No?

Oh.

One last thing, before I go. Your comments. It has actually become very gratifying to know that there are other people out there like me. Not as good as me, naturally. Not as brilliant, or as fantastic, or as admirable, but still- you have potential. Like those two nice American ladies who had that podcast-http://thepoweroffriendship.libsyn.com/index.php?post_id=548724 - which I LISTENED to, the whole way through, and it made me LATE for whatever it is I was planning to do that afternoon. So THANK YOU, nice American ladies, for wrecking my day.

Incidentally, my humour is IRISH, not British. Think of it like this- in their hearts, British people WANT to be Irish. They know we’re cooler, they just don’t like to admit it.

Oh, and Maddi asked two questions about writing. She asked if I told people the plot of what I’m writing before I’m finished, and the answer is, good God no. And don’t think THEY haven’t tried to make me. My editor, bless his twisted little soul, is always trying to get me to send him an outline, so that we can iron out any problems in the story before I get to them. I understand the request, but that isn’t how I work. If I plan out every little detail, I lose enthusiasm for the writing. And if someone else knows even the loosest structure of what I’m planning to do, I lose enthusiasm for the story itself.

Put simply, if I tell the story, even in an outline, then I’ve already told that story- so what’s the point of writing the book?

Not every writer is like this, by the way. Some plan it all out so that by the time they get to writing, it all flows onto the page. I’m not saying these writers are doing it wrong, but... actually yes, that is what I’m saying. Everyone should do it the way I do it, but obviously not as good.

Her second question was do I take onboard other people’s suggestions, as regards the direction of the books. And once again, the answer is good God no. I take onboard suggestions when it comes to editing- I will accept any good idea if it makes the book better, and then pretend I thought of it first. But the direction of the books is all mine. No one, not my publishers or my agent or my friends or family, knows where this series is going. And I’m not going to tell them, either.

The joy of being a writer is in the telling of the story. That’s all that matters, and that’s all we care about. I'm not going to spoil that by telling someone how the story ENDS. 

And that's it! Another blog over with! I shall write one more before I go on tour, and then I'll keep you up to date with the hilarious goings on while I'm over there. It will be a TOUR BLOG, full of funny things that happen to me, like getting lost, like not understanding languages, like getting on the wrong plane and actually arriving in Galway and wandering around for three weeks thinking how like Galway Hong Kong is...

Dogs and Babies

How quickly time flies.

Why, it seemed like only yesterday when I was telling you about the set of twins, and the pair of dogs, and wondering what life would be like once they were here. And now they are here, and I have realised that life is pretty much like it’s always been, only now there’s a set of twins and a pair of dogs in it.

My sister’s twins are tiny. They are so, so small. And they don’t DO anything. Like, myself and my brother were trying to race them the other day, and we had it all set up, had the stopwatch out, even had the prize agreed upon, but the saddles kept sliding off and we just couldn’t stay upright. My sister came in to find us sitting on the babies and she said some things she probably regrets now- hurtful things about our unsuitability as uncles- and took the twins away from us.

Stupid babies. Getting me shouted at.

My parents’ home has become some kind of weird museum to infants. My mother’s tasteful colour scheme has been thoroughly ruined by an influx of pink. The dining room table is covered with nappies and baby... stuff. Things. I don’t know what most of them do, or what most of them are for, but they look weird and unsettling, and I try to stay away as much as possible.

And all anyone talks about are the twins. If another subject is broached you are guaranteed it will flick back to baby talk within thirty seconds. Even this blog is now about the twins. MY blog. That should be talking about ME.

Friends and neighbours come over to visit, to drop by, and do they ask about me? Do they ask about the famous author, the genius writer, the teller of tall tales? No they do not, so I have to, and that just makes me look self-obsessed. So THANK YOU, Rebecca and Emily, for making me look bad in front of the people who should be worshipping me.

I suppose, if I had to say something nice about them, I would probably say they are mildly cute with squashy heads. I was holding one of them earlier today and she smiled at me, and my heart glowed, and I felt a connection, and so I told everyone, Look, she’s smiling at me! And my mother said no, it’s probably just trapped wind. And then the baby burped, and a moment later a strange smell arose from somewhere underneath, and the baby looked at me with her evil eyes and I knew we were enemies.

I don’t know which one it was, unfortunately. Everyone is having difficulty telling them apart. I suggested we get a magic marker and draw a large X on one of their foreheads, just so we’d be able to differentiate. The baby without the X would be the good baby. The baby with the X would be the evil one. My suggestion was voted down, as my suggestions usually are. I tried to implement my plan anyway, and I almost succeeded, but my family dragged me away from the evil baby before I managed to mark her.

We’ll meet again, Evil Baby. We’ll meet again.

Probably tomorrow, when I go home to my mammy for tea.

The dogs have settled in to life at my house with ease. Mable and Sherlock sleep in the kitchen, and they also pee in the kitchen, which apparently is great fun. I take them to the garden out back and let them run around and sniff the shrubs and try to track the cats, who are far too smart, quick, young and agile to ever feel threatened by these new arrivals.

When the dogs reach the far end of the garden I like to call them back, clapping my hands, encouraging them to run. Sherlock is younger, but he’s fat, and so he can’t really run without waddling from side to side. He has to take a few rests in between, so it generally takes him quite a while to reach me. Mable is older but faster, and yet she takes even longer because she is so bow-legged that she is incapable of running in a straight line. Many course-corrections later, she finds me, lies down, and pretends to be dead. We all laugh about it. Except for Mable.

I still find time to write, however. I have a deadline looming, and a tour on the horizon, so when I’m not laughing at dogs or battling Evil Babies, I write my books and update my Blog. Which is what I’m doing now. 

New Arrivals

I am an uncle.

I do not know why I have been chosen to be an uncle, but the Fates have decided that it is a title I needed, and so they have furnished me with a set of nieces. From the photograph, the nieces look fine, if a bit pink and splodgy. My sister is happy and her husband is confused, but then he is always confused.

(I know you’re reading this, Will, and I don’t care.)

I have tried, oh how I have tried, to impress upon them the need for names that will inspire awe, respect, and fear in those around them. Long have I struggled to make them understand that the names Derekina and Dereketta are perfectly valid names for girls, and any set of twins would be lucky to have them. When these suggestions were shot down, I brought out the proverbial big guns.

“Valkyrie,” I said. “And Tanith.”

My sister looked at me, shaking her head, unwilling to even contemplate the greatness these names would bestow. Her husband looked at me, bewildered, for that is his natural state, and he does it well.

(I told you I do not CARE, Will.)

I think “Valkyrie” is a wonderful name for a girl. What girl out there wouldn't like to be called this? It is truly impressive, and would spur the owner of the name to feats of heroism and bravery in the face of insurmountable odds. My sister claimed that the only reason I wanted the twins named thusly was because I saw a chance for a set of living, breathing advertisements for my books. This is not wholly untrue, but it was marginally hurtful.

I assure you, dear blog reader, that if the twins had been a set of boys, I would have been equally voracious about my attempts to have them named “Skulduggery” and “Ghastly”, for that is my level of dedication to my work.

I informed my agent of the joyous news regarding the pink splodgy babies, and she remarked how life may well begin to imitate rather well-written art- providing my younger sister has a baby girl in a few months time. Then THAT girl would grow up, like Valkyrie, with a set of twins for cousins and a writer for an uncle. Could she be destined for greatness? Could she have a dark and mysterious path to follow? Am I going to be murdered, only to return to the story as a slightly annoying recording somewhere?

Probably.

Personally, I think my younger sister is going to have a boy. In fact, even if she has a girl, I will treat the child like a boy until the child is fourteen, at which time I shall pretend she is invisible, just to see how that affects her mind. It should be funny, at the very least.

The names, by the way, for the twins. Rebecca and Emily. Lovely names. They’ll grow up adoring me, which is only right.

I leave now, with the news that the twins are not the only additions to the Landy clan. Tomorrow I shall be picking up two Staffordshire Bull Terriers from the Pound. They are aged nine and eleven, both so old and arthritic they can barely move. I simply do not know why I am adopting these completely useless dogs. Could they defend the house from burglars? Only if the burglars move really, really slowly, and were afraid of being licked to death. The older one is so arthritic her front legs are literally turned inwards, so she trips herself up when she walks. Amusing.

Their names, by the way, were not chosen by me. The nine year old is Sherlock. A fine name. The eleven year old is Mable. I am seriously considering changing it to Murder, or Madhead, in a vain effort not to appear to be a ninety year old woman. 

Random Replies to Random People

Today I shall be addressing comments. Yes, comments- the things I asked you not to leave and yet you CONTINUE TO DEFY ME!

Ahem.

I read all the comments, if for no other reason than to curse the day you ever sat down at your computer, but I don’t have the time to respond to them- which is why you comment leavers are getting a blog entry all to yourselves.

Aren’t you special?

People ask about the movie a lot. And I mean, a LOT. An insane amount of my valuable time is taken up answering this question. (Actually an even more insane amount of my valuable time is taken up eating cheese, but answering this question comes a close second...). All I can say is that there is no news on the movie yet, and so no news of any auditions. If and when we have good news, I will let you know, so that you may start to worship me as a god of some sort. Possibly with offerings of cheese.

Some minions want me to read their fanfiction, but the sad truth is, if I read ONE minion’s fanfiction, I will have no excuse not to read ANOTHER minion’s fanfiction, and then I will spend my DAYS reading fanfiction, and not actually writing anything, and my head would explode. Especially if I found some fanfiction that was BETTER than the books, in which case I would have to track down that particular minion and DESTROY him/her/it. I could do it, you know. I have special ninja-leprechaun powers. Oh yes.

There are some of you out there who have defended Transformers 2 and Van Helsing, claiming that they are actually “good” films. Allow me a moment to laugh at your small, small brains. Van Helsing is a TRAVESTY of a film and should be put down immediately. It’s not fun, it’s not energetic, it’s just BAD. And as for Transformers 2... I saw the first one and I thought, there is no way the sequel could be worse. I was wrong. I was so, so wrong.

Strangely, though, absolutely no one has left me a comment defending GI Joe, and for that, you have my grudging respect.

Video games get the occasional mention in the comments. I have both played and loved the Metal Gear Solid series, and Modern Warfare. I did laugh, however, at the comment from the girl whose parents thought a PS2 guitar would work with a Wii. Old people are so funny with the stupid things they think...

Someone, by the way, has DARED to mention the possibility that I come across as “arrogant” in this Blog. Pffft! Is it “arrogance” to KNOW that I am simply superior? Is it “arrogance” to BEHAVE like we have all accepted this fact? Is THAT “arrogance”? IS IT?

Oh. Oh, well in that case, yes, I suppose I AM arrogant. And you can’t tell me you don’t love it.

Evidently, there are some comic readers out there. Deadpool and Fullmetal Alchemist, eh? I read neither, but probably should read both. I’m a big Spider-Man fan, love the Avengers, Kick-Ass is wonderful, and Hellboy is sublime. Basically, I love any comic that is written by someone who is better than me. Reading this stuff just fills me with enthusiasm to do even better myself- the same reaction I get after reading a good book or watching a great film.

In my own way I... I suppose I kind of hope to have the same effect on somebody else. That, maybe, hopefully, one of you out there, my minions, will read something I’ve written and then, fired up with creativity and energy, you will go and create your OWN work, and it will be glorious to behold. Maybe you’ll draw a comic, or make a movie, or write a book, and it’s all because you once read Skulduggery Pleasant...

Of course, if you write a book and it beats me to the Number One spot in the Bestseller list, I will hunt you down with my ninja-leprechaun powers, and you will never be safe again.

EVER.

That is all.

ANOTHER FORMATTING CATASTROPHE

Incredibly, following the blog entry in which I asked everyone NOT to comment, I got the MOST comments of this blog’s short history. In which case, I must ask you, nay, DEMAND, that none of you, not ONE of you, send me any money at all. NO MONEY AT ALL, DO YOU HEAR?

Excellent.

A few of you sympathized with my bathmat and towel set, and such sympathies are appreciated in this, my time of need. The best present I got for Christmas, actually, was a mug with a one-eyed dog on the side. The one-eyed dog is called Betty, and she is- officially- Ireland’s Most Loved Dog ™. She even won a competition for the title. The reason I now own a mug with her slightly puzzled-looking face on the side is because Betty went missing right before the competition was held, and I went out, bravely and with no thought to my own personal safety, and found her and brought her back to my good friend Laura. We are now bonded. Me and Betty, that is, not me and Laura. Although if Laura went missing and I went out and found HER, I’m sure we’d be bonded too.

I’m not sure what I’m talking about anymore.

I still don’t know how to blog correctly. Have you noticed the discrepancy between the size of the font in the first few entries and the LAST few? This is because THEY have allowed me to attain some degree of control over this ridiculous blogging enterprise. Unfortunately, the control they have allowed me is control over font size, and I have no idea how to work that particular control. I have instructions, but I have read none of these, and instead I have trusted in the Universe, in Fate, in the almighty Force, to guide my hand.

And judging by the lack of effectiveness, I now believe Fate to be a myth, the Force to be imaginary, and I’m starting to doubt that the Universe even exists.

It’s a brand new year, of course. I am, as you can probably tell, unimaginably thrilled by the whole thing. I am thrilled by the amount of work I will have to do, and the sheer amount of hours I will have to sit in airports. This year I’ll even get to sit in airports I’ve never sat in before. I’ll be able to sit in an airport in Hong Kong, a couple in Australia, and at least one in New Zealand. Won’t that be fun?

You know, I’m not altogether sure I like 2010, which got off to a slow start. I tend not to go out on New Year’s Eve, and I tend not to want to talk to anyone, so I stayed at home and I wrote. This little tradition started after I went through four or five months of being unable to write anything even remotely good, back in 2007. I finally wrote something BRILLIANT on New Year’s Eve, and kept writing through midnight. Since then, it is one of the few traditions I have- start the year as you mean to go on. 

It’s also a great way of declining party invitations. I turned down TWO this time around. It was brilliant. I mean, really, why would I want to go to a party and talk to people I have no interest in? I’d just end up scowling and insulting everyone. Which is what I do every Saturday night ANYWAY.

So I wrote some Skulduggery, and I have to admit, what I wrote was genius. I don’t like to brag, but when no one is around to do it for me, I am forced to. The chapter I wrote was both tense and funny, but also uniquely touching, in a way only truly great writers can achieve. Writers like Hemingway, Tolstoy, Joyce, and Dan Brown, these writers WISH they were as good as me.

I’m joking, by the way. The first three on that list are dead, so they’re not wishing much of anything these days. And the last one is rubbish.

So far, 2010 has been pretty cold and the roads have been pretty bad, which means I haven’t been able to go into town to buy my precious comics, which always puts me in a foul mood. Have you noticed, also, that 2010 SMELLS funny? It does, doesn’t it? It smells faintly of 2004 and old cabbage.

But no, I shall remain positive. No matter the obstacles in my path, I shall overcome, and I shall enjoy a prosperous new year, full of creativity and fun. Fun, I say! And also I shall buy more toys.

Now leave me alone. And remember, SEND ME NO MONEY, MINIONS.