Star Blog

I was wrong about the James Sallis and Cripple Creek. Couldn't sleep last night so sat up and read about half of it. Another masterpiece, maybe even better than Cypress Grove. Haven't changed my mind about Ashes to Ashes though. A pale imitation of Life On Mars. Ticks all the wrong boxes. Very sad.

One of those days where you arrange things to make it easy for yourself and it turns into the opposite. Had to go to London in the morning. Not my cup of tea but amazing to be out on such a beautiful day. Global warming means that even here in usually frosty February a warm sensuous spring is already in the air. I know you're not allowed to like that by the thought-police but I liked it a lot today.

Then the train journey home from hell. Best part of three hours to do the so-called 40-minute journey. And the mayor says you shouldn't take your car into London. Fuck off, Ken...

Got home in time to do a phone interview for the Zep book. Not saying with who as that would spoil the surprise when - WHEN??? - the book is finally out. But it did me good to talk to someone who seems to care even more about the fine details of the story than I do. Then wife and I were naughty and found ourselves pottering around one of our favourite antique haunts in Wallingford. Went insane and bought wife a 10th anniversary present - a 200-year-old diamond solitaire ring. When we got engaged I could only afford some cheap schtick from H. Samuel so had always promised her (and me) that one day I would make that right. Got the perfect opportunity today. Of course, Bob my benevolent bank manager may have something unromantic to say about it in due course but what the hell. You only live once. Even if it feels like nine times that when I look in the mirror these days.

P.S. Several people have emailed in asking what music I'm listening to these days. I don't know why that would matter really but if you must know I've been listening to a lot of classical music. Radio 3 is my constant companion most days when I'm working. Partly because it's good background music with very little inane DJ chatter and partly because, well, it's god's music, doncha know. Also been digging Bert Jansch. When Radio 3 go mad and play jaunty slop by dead tits it's Bert I turn to and he hasn't let me down yet. Other than that, I don't listen to music when I'm not working. I watch telly. Torchwood is king currently. Thought it might be Ashes to Ashes (having been a huge Life On Mars fan - shit, that WAS my life back in 1973!) but been terribly disappointed. What a waste. Good job I've got a load of James Sallis books to read instead. Just finished Cypress Grove (a masterpiece) just started the follow-up Cripple Creek (not sure yet, bit worried it might be a touch Ashes to Ashes...)

Can I go now?

And then you get days like today when it so happens that you've done all the preparation, compiled enough research material and organised it all in the right chronological order to smply join up the dots. That is to say, write it. People always ask me how it's going, assuming, I think, that I spend my entire day sitting there writing page after page, as opposed to what a biographer actually spends most of his time doing, which is sorting out all the pieces of the jigsaw. There are many days and weeks and eventually months and years when you do very little writing indeed because of this. Instead, you have been reading old books, magazines, newspaper articles, scrolling through internet sites, interviewing people, then transcribing or at least listening back to the interviews. And, hardest of all to describe to a non-writer, often just sitting around thinking about it all.

But not today. Today I was a writing machine, banging out pages like a printer. Well, sort of. I exaggerate only slightly though. This is the fun part of writing a book. It's only a fraction of the whole deal maybe but it's what it's actually all for. Of course, reading back what you've written, well, now, that's a different kind of hell...

Thinking about it, there must be little that's more boring to read than the inane ramblings of some poor sod up to his eyes in the shit of writing a long book. What does he have to say, other than another day down, another few pages wrenched into shape. And that's if he's lucky. Some days a more honest description of how he spends his time would be something like, got up, checked emails, nothing there, shat, didn't shave, thought about a shower, checked emails, still nothing, ate some cereal, drank tea, finally got dressed, checked emails, one from his wife saying two new bills arrived, sat in front of the computer for almost half an hour before the pain became too great, went back to the kitchen and made a sandwich, ate it while staring at Loose Women on the TV, checked emails then wondered why he still bothered, went back to the computer, struggled through another hour and a half of fucking around doing God knows what, yawned, stretched, though not too hard in case the old tosser pulls a muscle, a distinct possibility at his age, checked emails, still nothing so screamed "DOESN'T ANYBODY FUCKING KNOW ME ANYMORE!", thought about another shit, thought about his mother, thought about the fly on the wall watching, that lucky bastard, wondered if it was OK yet to have a drink, went for a lie down, slept for a couple of hours, got up, checked emails, yeah right, ate, drank more tea, scratched his arse, wandered in to stare at the computer for a bit longer, went to pour some wine from yesterday's bottle, drank a long glass of that, thought about checking emails but decided fuck it, put the radio on, felt better though what about who knows, then went to heat up yesterday's stew and see if he can find some unstale bread. Switched on the TV and fucking forgot about the whole fucking thing fuck it how much more of this shit can one poor wanker stand...

The next time you see one of those nauseous ads that say: Hey, Why Not Be A Writer!! think about that...

Spent the night at home and slept like a log, for a change. Was supposed to get out early and back to the cottage to run leaping into the book. Still here at nearly 3.00pm. It's OK, I have a feeling I'll be spending the rest of the day and night on it - without dozing off this time, hopefully. All the cliches remain true. In my case the one about a change being as good as a rest. It better be true anyway.

It's my wife I feel sorry for. She's looking really good at the moment, her illnness having swiped about 10 pounds off her. But trying to take care of three small kids on your own - especially on a week when there's no school - takes you to the seventh ring of hell sometimes. Makes me feel like the lukewarm drink of water I am moaning about writing a book. Until I sit down to get on with it, then suddenly I remember how close to the seventh ring that is as well. If only it made me lose 10 pounds here and there, too.

A day off. First for... who knows? A veerrryyyyy long time. Needed it too. Yesterday was weird. I kept sitting down to work on the book and every time I did it was like someone threw a blanket over the budgie cage, I just kept falling asleep. Head literally wobbling on my shoulders, eyes hazing out of focus. I didn't even feel 'tired' in the usual sense. In fact, having worked out in the morning, I felt 'good'. I thought.

Ended up hitting the sack about midday, just to see if I would actually doze off. I did. For about an hour. Then again about 7.30pm. For another hour or so. Then again at about 10.30pm. At which point I bowed to the inevitable and pulled my clothes off and made it official. Didn't wake up again until gone nine this morning. After two long dreams. In the first Robert Plant had sent evil spirits to get me. Which was nice of him. Woke up in a sweat. Couldn't figure real from Rob. Eventually got there and fell back into darkness. At which point Maureen Rice came into the picture. This was an epic four-hour job, went on and on and on. So real and yet so weird. Woke up nearly in tears, feeling far, far away. Then back into darkness where she was waiting for me again...

By the time I'd regained consciousness properly I was feeling more knackered than I had before I went to sleep. So... I diagnosed my problem and prescribed a day off. Of course, a day off for me isn't exactly like it used to be. Especially not during half-term week. Ended up taking the family to Oxford for one of our periodic retail-therapy sessions. Bought silver necklaces for the girls and a toy Bob the Builder hammer for the boy. Wife bought a book - a signed copy of the John Barrowman biog. She was so thrilled I thought we might end up having sex. And who knows, we might yet if the kids would ever calm down long enough to go to bed. By which point sex will be the last thing either of us feel up to, of course. "But hey," I told her. "One day we'll look back on this and it will all seem funny!" She just looked at me...

Another day another Axl radio interview, this time the Drew and Mike show in Detroit. I have to say, these have all been really good. I'm surprised because I had assumed they would all be 10-minute jobs max, done by guys (and gals) that have just had bits of the book highlighted for them by their producers. While that was clearly the case on a couple of occasions, most of them have been long pieces done with real-sounding people that seem to know the story better than I do. I thought Elliot and Diane in Washington DC would take some beating, as they were atomically good. But Drew and Mike today were even better. We spoke for 45 minutes and at one point they were even reading bits of the book out. It sounded goooood, too. And I don't care how that looks. Trust me, I've done enough bad books to know when I've done a good one, and the Axl book just gets better every time I look at it. Well done me me me.

Now it's back to the cottage where the Zep book still sits, defying me to ever finish it. That bastard! I hope I get to talk about it one day too, to Drew and Mike and Elliot and Diane and all the other cool cats out there is US radio land. Then after that, maybe a long sleep. Or as I like to think of it, a fucking long sleep...

Just emerged from my book cave for an hour or so to do another radio interview for the Axl book. Just sitting here waiting for the phone to ring right now. This one for the Elliot in the Morning show in Washington DC, if you're anywhere within earshot. Katy at St. Martin's Press in New York, who organises these things, tells me it's a Zoo Format show, which I presume means lots of wacky presenters all taking the piss out of me. I do hope so, the last couple of days being more of a Hermit-like format for me personally, getting reacquainted with the Zep book.

The week-long break has done some good, in that I have been able to attack it with a solid burst of energy. The down side is it took me most of yesterday to figure out where I was in the story. (It's no good just expecting to resume where you left off, you have to recap the whole thing, or I do anyway.) Good though, mostly. I'm hoping this energy burst will last long enough for me to polish off another chapter this week. And then another next week, if I can keep it up, and/or the Curse of Page doesn't bring down another batch of virsuses/infections/mental illnesses before then.

Well, wife is getting better at last and though far from normal (as far as we can recall what that is) I am officially Back At Work. Except of course - I'm not. It was youngest daughter's 5th birthday on Saturday and we had the party today, Sunday. All of which took care of the weekend good and proper. I have been going back to the cottage in the evening but instead of working I have found myself flat out on the couch half-staring at the TV, half lost in my own much-reduced world. Red wine helps, obviously. But only so much. Instead, I've been taking solace in Cypress Grove by James Sallis. What a book that is. Dry as an old leaf, hard as bone. But subtle beyond belief. With one of those after-tastes that goes on, literally, for hours and days. Maybe longer, we'll see. And all thank you to Maureen Rice.

Tomorrow, though, it's the proper stuff for me again. Zep and more Zep. With a good head wind, and an uninterrupted couple of weeks, I could be nearly halfway through the book. Which would still leave me chasing an impossible deadline, but feeling an awful lot better about it than I do right now, having just had another argument with wife about taking her cough medicine. She wants to get better too but she's never been one for drugs of any prescription and getting her to dose herself up on any sort of regular basis is like trying to coax kids to eat their greens. Worse, cos she fights back. Jesus. What would he do? Or James Sallis? Maybe Maureen would know...

Woke up (that is to say, went from half-sleep weird dream-state to full back-aching consciousness) after another night of having my son sleep in the bed with me, his enormous two-year-old feet pummelling my back while his mother slept in his bed, and thought: fuck it, she must be feeling a bit better today, surely to god. Then wife staggered in and the first words out of her mouth were: "I think I'm coughing up blood. I'm really worried."

At which point, it's probably a good thing I hadn't fully recovered the power of speech yet otherwise I might have said something that would later be held against me in a court of law. Anyway, coughing up blood is no biggie. I did that for years when I was a smoker (and a drinker and a you know what don't-mention-the-war). It just means you've gone a bit too far over the edge, I eventually told her. She just looked at me. "I mean with all the coughing and puking up and stuff," I smiled weakly. She looked away.

Another side-effect of this latest bout of blood-coughing and baby-sitting is that I'm getting to know all the yummy-mummies at school. They're an amazing bunch. Hardy as hell, swinging babies from the hip while pushing buggies with screaming toddlers in them one-handed and yelling at other larger striplings not to run in front of cars. "How are you handling it?" asked one, eyeing the newly etched lines under the older etched lines on my already far too lined and old face. "I'm exhausted," I whimpered. "HAHAHAHAHA!" she said. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!" went all the other yummy-mummies listening in. "Now you know what it's like!"

Actually, I already knew what it was like. And I admit, it's hard. Fucking hard. And no, I don't fancy the gig fulltime. Wives and mothers rule OK, no argument from me. How many of them, though, will know what's it's like to be paying rental on a cottage which you haven't seen for days and days, where you're supposed to be writing a book you can no longer even remember which page you're supposed to be on? OK, there's probably a few. But that doesn't make ME feel any better. They might be coughing up blood. I feel like I'm coughing up shit, and plenty of it.

Anyway, gotta go. I can hear the brats beating each other up nextdoor, which means it's time to apply the chains and haul them upstairs to the Bath of Hell followed by the Bed of Death. God, I'm tired. I keep thinking that after this - if there ever is an 'after this' - writing will seem like a piece of piss. Then realise that actually, no, it won't.

Hello again from Emergency Ward 10. Wife now resembling a ghost - wandering the house hack-hack-hacking in the small hours - I finally snapped and ordered her back to the doctor's. This being Doctor Number 3, naturally she got a completely different diagnosis - asthma. Probably. Maybe. Anyway, more anti-biotics, a huge plastic gun-like inhaler that looks like something Amy Winehouse would be at home with, and at least the feeling that something is at last Being Done. Even if it's just for my benefit.

Meanwhile... trying to stay in touch with what I laughingly refer to as 'my business', I sat down this morning to find I had 111 unread emails. That is, emails I haven't considered urgent enough to bother opening so far this week (and I usually consider any and every email 'urgent'). Which just shows you what spousal-illness can do to you. That's 111 unread emails and exactly 0 words written of the Zep book. I even had to blow out two phone interviews with America today for the Axl book. That's one seriously fucking ill wife...

Some fun news though. Found myself on Page Six of the New York Post yesterday. Talking about the Axl book. That is, they were. I was just quoted randomly. As, too, was Slash. Page Six, though. Big time, baby. Whatever next? Someone actually buying the damn thing? I can dream, can't I? In between the nappies and cat shit and hack-hack-hack...

Another day in the sick ward. Wife is clearly at death's door, staggering around like a drunk in the middle of the motorway, cars whizzing by narrowly avoiding her. Meanwhile, I haven't even washed my face yet today, let alone showered, worked out, or - what was it again? oh yeah! - got to work on the FUCKING BOOK.

I think it's Jimmy Page. He's put a curse on me, doing everything in his evil power to stop me getting on with things. But James, it's gonna be the best book ever about Zep! Let me finish it and you'll see. Fuck Hammer of the Gods, this will be like one of those things you get on Dylan or the Beatles or whatever the fuck. Or as close as I can manage it. Come on, give a poor cunt a break. Or at least let wife get back on her feet cos this is killing me. Man was not made to schlep around picking up dirty nappies, doing washing, cooking, cleaning, etfuckingcetera, while listening to wife hack-hack-hack up her guts all day (and night), sitting there in the same T-shirt he wore to bed last night stinking up the room for everyone.

Jimmy, please, remember the good times, back when we were friends. I offered you millions to do your own book and you didn't even say no, just that dreaded silence. At least let me try and ensure there is one good book about you out there... somewhere... huh?

One of those good news, bad new days. Hadn't been awake long when Ross called to tell me someone had just called him to tell him that Planet Rock was closing down. As I stopped doing my show there in November this doesn't hit me personally but I feel sorry for the people still working there. A good bunch, always made me feel right at home even as I was pushing many wrong buttons. It seems GCap, who own them, reckon digital radio has no future. Blimey, maybe someone should tell the BBC before they spend any more millions on it. GCap have also announced they are closing down The Jazz. As a listener, this hurts me even more as I often tune into The Jazz when I'm writing late at night. Best late-nite music going for the past year. Poor fuckers. Maybe some white knight will come along and save them. And then again...

Good news... did an amazing radio interview for the Axl book today with a guy called Jeff Strange, programme director of WKHY in Lafayette Indianna (Axl's home town). We spoke for nearly an hour - an eternity in radio terms - and it was great. I'd kind of expected maybe a rough ride as this was Axl's home town station but this guy obviously knows his stuff. Heartening to know there are still some good guys out there doing their thing, no matter what the commercial robber barons reckon.

Bad news... wife and youngest daughter are both ill - again. Jesus Christ, I swear they should name a ward after us at the JR. But then they do have the habit of walking around on winter days dressed like they were on their way to the beach. In fact, they even went to the beach on Saturday when wife drove the whole menagerie down to Bournemouth, while I sweated away on the Zep bok. It was a beautiful day, it's true but wife "forgot" to bring her coat. So she bought a new one - that looks like a cardigan. A very nice, fashionable cardigan (if you can imagine such a thing) but still not a sodding coat.

Better news... got a v.nice email from my friend Maureen Rice, picking up on me moaning recently that I can't find anything to read that doesn't send me to sleep, telling me to check out James Sallis, noir detective novellist par excellence apparently, so I went on-line and bought three of his novels (Eye Of The Cricket and two others) cos when Maureen says check it out you know it will be cool.

Less exciting news... Later today we had to go to a Parents-Teachers meeting at the school, me, wife, ankle-biters, the lot. Great joy. Actually, I didn't mind as the Foundation teacher is our good friend Lynn. But now we've got two blighters there it means we also had to see eldest daughter's teacher - aka the Old Dragon. Who turned out to be very nice actually. Which just proves what they say: never judge a dragon...

Now I'm supposed to dash for the train and go to an author's party that my UK publishers, Orion, are throwing this evening. Champagne and canopes in a room at the Royal Opera House, doncha know. Except I can't get there in time now. Besides which, have done FUCK ALL on the Zep book today I really do need to get back to it tonight. A double nightshift awaits. Great joy indeed...

Been running back and forth from the cottage to the house doing radio interviews with America for the Axl book, because the phone at the cottage has such a bad line it's not good enough for this. No biggie, except every time I go home I get collared into doing all sorts of other stuff I wouldn't have if I wasn't there, which is the reason I rented the cottage in the first place.

Maybe it's just one of those weeks. Between the phoners, the doctors, the dentist and the wife and kids, yesterday was the first time I managed to get more than a couple of solid hours work done on the book. I swear if I rented a cottage on the moon someone would still find an excuse to bring me back to Earth on a semi-daily basis. "Houston, we have a problem, he's getting too much done on the book, better reel the bastard in again." One small step for a man, two great leaps backwards...

Got lucky with the Dentist, no blood and not much pain at all. All he had to do was, as he put it, "shave a layer off your lower back tooth." This meant no painkiller either. I foresaw trouble. But the whole thing was over in a couple of minutes and I can now chew with my mouth closed for the first time since 2007.

Back to where I started today though. Had a morning appointment at the JR - the big Oxford hospital - for an ultrasound scan on my stomach. Looking for gallstones. None were found, so the weird pain I've been suffering from for a couple of years now must be... something else. And that's official. "Maybe something to do with the bowel," said the Doctor, not particularly helpfully.

The real bellyache was having to get up at 6.00 a.m. in order to make the appointment. I don't mind doing 'early' since I stopped sleeping properly anyway. It's just that now - 10 hours later, as I write - I'm feeling completely done in. Like I NEED TO GO TO BED. This is not possible though for two reasons. 1) I'm at home this afternoon and wife would not allow it on the grounds that it's, er, not allowed. And 2) I have a phone interview to do in about an hour with a radio station in California called The Quake. I think it's the morning show, guy named Scott Hammond. And if you're out there in sunny Calif. and fancy a listen, I think it's broadcast tomorrow morning (Thurs). Reason being the US version of the Axl Rose book comes out in America tomorrow and so this week and next I'm doing interviews to promote it. What a shame they couldn't have flown me out in person, but then I would have missed all the fun at the doctor/dentist/hospital this week, wouldn't I?

Right, gotta dash. I need to have a flick through the Axl book to remind myself of what the hell it's all about. It's nearly a year since I finished writing it and I'm buggered if I can remember much. Funny little guy, right? Red hair and freckles and a v.bad temper. Bit of trouble finishing the 'new' album. Used to be in a band with the more famous and successful Slash...

To the doctor's for my blood tests today. I went in to see him last week because my ball was still aching and he ended up sticking a finger up my arse and waggling it around, checking my prostate. "It's usually older men that have this sort of problem," he smiled weakly. "But just to be sure..." Then I had a blood test, "just to be sure." Then some antibiotics to take, which I have been doing for the past week. I got the results today: normal. Just "an infection" and "nothing to worry about" though I am to "keep an eye on things". Just to be sure. Christ...

Worse is now to follow. As I write this I am 20 minutes away from seeing Nick the dentist, who put a whacking great filling into one of my crumbling back teeth before Xmas whch has been causing me pain ever since. He's a good guy, Nick, best molar-holer I've ever had. But the damn thing is too big. I can't shut my gob properly, can't eat on that side properly and lately it has become a constant ball of pain. I went to see him three weeks ago to tell him this and he just smiled reassuringly, wagged a finger around in my mouth and told me it was all in my head and that if I didn't feel better in three weeks to come back and see him. So, three weeks later, I've got 15 minutes to go...

I know what he'll say. It's not the perfect filling he drilled obviously, the fault couldn't possibly be his, it must be the rotting tooth and that he'll have to take it out. Cue: blood, pain, and another big bill to pay at the end of it. Like a metaphor for life, you might say. Except that doesn't actually make me feel any better. Right, better go or I'll be late and get charged for that too...

A short weekend as I stayed at the cottage to work on Saturday, then woke up so late on Sunday morning I didn't get home till lunchtime. Still, we did go out. Down to Millet's Farm, where they have animals, ponds, swings and roundabouts - and a couple of nice big very expensive shops for mummy and daddy to piss away their hard-earned in. One of the shops is stocked with organic farm produce which costs a fortune but tastes soooooooooo good. The other is like a I don't know what, just sells everything, from garden tools to toys, books, new age knicknacks, fish, CDs, furniture, ornaments, etcetera. Sort of place you can spend hours in, especially if you've got children who want to buy the ventriloquist gorillas, books about space, toy birds that squeak like the real thing and god knows what else.

Finally escaped home in time for me to set about making my weekly roast chicken, which just keeps getting better. The more tired I am, the better it tastes. Like the less effort I put in the better it turns out. Maybe I should think of the book the same way and just do it half-asleep, with one hand behind my back. It'll taste better.