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. 

Terrible, Terrible News

Earlier today, I received some rather troubling news. I am not a man to cry easily, for I am Strong and Proud, and yet when I heard this piece of news I wept- I wept like a little baby after being jabbed in the belly with a pointy stick. My heart is broken. My dreams are ashes.

Apparently there are people out there, strange and unsettling and disturbed people, who are actually sitting down at their computers and READING THIS BLOG. In fact, if my source is correct, at least ONE of them is doing that RIGHT NOW.

I know you’re out there. I can feel you.

Why is this happening? Surely you must understand that I hate this. I have done everything I possibly can to convince you of this fact. And yet you persist in torturing me.

Don’t you understand? The more people that read this, the more successful it becomes. The more successful it becomes, the more I’ll have to write it. It is a circle, and it is a vicious one, and you are only adding to my misery. I hope this makes you HAPPY, you evil, evil people.

And comments! Some of you even have the audacity to leave comments! Do you want to know a secret? Do you?

Every time you comment on this blog, an angel loses its wings. You have been warned.

I refuse to tell you about my Christmas. You are not getting one ounce of information out of me. Not one. Apart from a complaint about the quality of my presents this year.

I knew they would be bad. I knew this would be a bleak year for gifts. I have told you, oh evil reader of this blog, about my sisters and the whole “curtain rail” fiasco. It may please some of you to know that I did not, in fact, receive a curtain rail. They passed that particular idea to my mother, who has promised me she will sort out my curtain rail requirements over the coming weeks. Oh, my joy is boundless. So what, you may ask, did my sisters get me, in the end?

They assured me, as they took the wrapped present from beneath the Christmas tree and handed it over, that this is something I NEED. This is something my house LACKS. They implied, practically GUARANTEED, that my life will be better now that I have their Christmas gift. I was not thrilled by the softness of the present. It felt suspiciously like a sensible fleece, or a terrible woolly jumper (woolly sweater, for you Americans out there). I held my breath. I opened the gift. 

Do you want to know what they gave me? Do you? Can you handle the shock? Can you withstand the AMAZEMENT?

My sisters had got me a bathmat. And matching towels.

I got towels for Christmas.

I pointed out the fact that I already HAD a bathmat. They said yes, but the new one can be a REPLACEMENT bathmat, for special occasions. Dear God, I thought, pregnancy has made both of my sisters quite insane. I backed away slowly, maintaining eye contact, keeping the bathmat and towels between us at all times. If they lunged, I reasoned, I could hurl the bathmat to distract them, and escape in the confusion. The towels would only be used as a last resort.

I can hear them still, their mad cackling...

I’m supposed to tell you something else. Something official and work-related. I was told to tell you. THEY told me. The wicked and controlling THEY. My so-called “Masters”. (I have no Masters. I decide my own destiny, I control my own fate. Some day soon they will learn this, but by then it will be too late, and I shall laugh a laugh of victory and scones. For I shall be having scones with my victory that day. Scones and jellies. I’m getting confused now. Where was I?)

Yes, something to tell you. I shall be taking part in something that is called a “Blog Tour”. I have no idea what this means. Somehow, probably through magic and bizarre occult practices, I shall be conducting a Question and Answer session across a series of blogs all this week. The five Bloggers are as follows:

Essex Library Teen Space

Green Bean Teen Queen

Library Lounge Lizard Blog

Read Kiddo Read

Wondrous Reads

Before I depart, a plea. If you have one shred of human decency within you, you will not read this blog. If you have one iota of mercy, or compassion, you will not leave a comment. If you never visit this page again, then I can stop writing it. You see? Then I will be happy. You see? You want me happy, don’t you? You don’t want to torture me, do you?

Do you?

Oh, you are EVIL.

Christmas Is Coming

Ah, Christmas is coming, and the elves are wrapping the presents and the reindeer are being hooked up to the sleigh, and all is good with the world and I’m FREEZING.

What is wrong with my house? What is wrong with this world that I have to sit here and type while my poor feet grow steadily colder? My poor, poor feet. Have I ever told you how pretty my feet are? Oh they are pretty. Far and wide, people sing songs about my feet and their prettiness. Many a Foot Competition I have won because of these two beauties. And now look at them, shivering in my boots like two hairless ferrets in a bucket. A tragedy, I tell you.

Other writers (lesser writers) in other blogs (lesser blogs) will no doubt wish all their readers a Merry Christmas or a Happy Holiday or other such tripe and nonsense, but not this one. Bah humbug, say I. And if the ghosts of past, present and future elect to visit me at all over the next few days, they shall taste the fury of my blade!

(By fury I mean annoyance. And by blade I mean spoon.)

My Christmas presents, I fear, will be somewhat lacking in size, quantity, and existence this year. My sisters announced last week that they would DO something, instead of BUY something. Last year they did the same, and I pointed to my rather drab downstairs bathroom and asked, “Can you brighten this up?”

I was expecting nothing more than a small table, maybe with a narrow vase atop a doily, some potpourri perhaps. You know, the silly things only truly odd people know how to arrange. They arrived over, surveyed the bathroom, spoke at length about nothing in particular, and left. They didn’t return. Eight months later I bought some potpourri myself, and now it sits, somewhat forlornly, in the sink.

So I was not altogether thrilled by the prospect of another “gift”. But both sisters are pregnant now, and my mother insists that they must be treated delicately. I reasoned that an entire room, no matter how small, was simply too much to ask for last year. So this time, I told them that all I need is a new curtain rail. One single curtain rail. That’s all. Just one.

A curtain rail. For Christmas.

They arrived over yesterday, surveyed the window in question, spoke at length about what it’s like to be pregnant, and left.

I rather fear that I shall never see this curtain rail. They didn’t even take any measurements, for God’s sake.

The second blog entry: I don't do pithy

Bah- the second blog entry and already I’m running out of things to write. I mean, what do people want to read about? My work? My day? My most innermost thoughts? A combination of all three with an amusing sidebar into pithy anecdotes?

I don’t DO pithy, and I’m terrible at anecdotes.

So, fine, my day.

I woke up, then I got up. Ate some apples (apple-eating is my new thing). I let the cats in and they immediately demanded food. They’ve been looking kind of fat lately, so I only gave them half their usual amount, which is still probably too much. I know NOTHING about cats.

This afternoon I bought a few DVDs and some cat food and dog food. I also bought some human food, for the people who live at the bottom of my garden. They can be harsh and vicious if they haven’t eaten, so I hope to appease them with meagre offerings of raw meat, flung from my back doorstep in much the same way as Roy Schneider flung that chow off the back of the boat in Jaws.

One of the DVDs I bought was GI Joe. I bought this because I thought it would be a good idea. It was not. I now hate this movie, for it is awful. It is worse than X-Men 3. It is even worse than Transformers 2. I have not hated a film so much since I saw Van Helsing. Van Helsing was directed by the same man. There are lessons in life I should learn, and yet learn them I do not.

After I watched this film, as punishment for some terrible thing I must have done when I was a small, potato-headed child, I got back to writing, and made the final revisions to Book Four, Dark Days. This one was a lot of fun to do- quite a few bad guys return, and bad guys are always fun to write. Now it’s all ready to be designed and printed, in time for April. I decided to give myself the rest of the night off to celebrate.

And then I remembered this blog, of which I am coming to the end. It is now 2:36 AM as I write this, and to celebrate Dark Days being almost done with, I am now going to bed.

They’re making me write a blog.

I hate blogs. Hate them. Don’t know why anyone would want to read any blog I write. Who could possibly be interested in what I have to say? Who could possibly be interested in my movements, plans, or thoughts? Lunatics, that’s who. Lunatics and weirdos. Are you reading this? Are you?

Allow me to be the latest to tell you- you are a lunatic and a weirdo, and your brain scares me.

They want me to write a blog, but we all know what they’re REALLY after. They want to keep TABS on me. That’s what all this is about. They want to find out what I’m thinking. They know I’m dangerous. I know all their secrets, you see. They’re scared I’ll TELL.

Hate blogs. Hate them.

One of them is standing behind me right now, a golden crossbow aimed at the back of my head. He’s telling me to be nice, and write nice things. I can see his reflection in my computer screen. I can even see the GLEAM in his eyes. He’s serious. He’s telling me, in a whispery voice of evil, to be nice. He’s telling me to give you the official spiel.

The following passage, I assure you, is written under duress.

Hi everyone! Welcome to the Best Blog Ever! Written in a land of Rainbows and Moonbeams! Where everyone is a friend! I love you all! Even the ugly ones!

In this blog, I’m going to be keeping you up to date with my many goings on! Oh it’ll be so much fun! You’ll be told about tours, and publication dates for my books, and all my zany and wacky writing adventures!

We’re going to be the best of friends!

He’s gone, drifting out the window like a ghost, leaving me with nothing but his sadistic cackle. Fine. So I’m writing a blog. Big deal. I can handle that. I can play their game.

Until it’s time to strike...