I woke this morning with the kind of hangover that registered slightly higher on the richter scale, than the latest California earthquake. I’ve seen the pictures on the BBC news website, fallen buildings and dust filled skies – slightly post-apocalyptic. Pah, nothing like being inside my head.
What is it with Americans? Everything has to be bigger and better. Ooooh look at our earthquake, somewhat more impressive than Dominic’s hangover. Well, is it? Really? And how do you know? Are you inside my head right now, do you have the inside track? And my kidneys – have you passed through them recently? No you haven’t. And yet, simply because you are American, you are front and centre (as you like to say and I don’t know why) of all the major new channels.
It’s 10:59 on Saturday morning and my head hurts. It’s taken me six minutes to write these words. And they’re not very good. I’m blaming San Andreas. It’s his fault! Haha, brilliant, haha. Oh dear.
It’s lovely when people buy your book, and then send you a picture to prove it.
I calculated the other day, that for every two books I sell, I can buy a cup of coffee in my local café in Paris. So I would like to petition this thought; coffee is probably the most significant and useful legal drug there is – I am dysfunctional without it. Given the world’s complete dependency on it, I’m astonished it doesn’t have the same legal status as water, which was made a ‘human right’ by the UN in 2010.
If my personal human rights now depend not on what Ban Ki-moon once muttered, but is in fact dependent entirely upon my step-brother buying a copy of my book (out of sheer politeness I might add) then something has gone seriously bloody wrong with the world.
I had intended to solve poverty on Monday morning, but sadly I now have to work eighteen hours a minute to sell two books to buy my own coffee – so I am afraid millions will have to die. ‘World Peace’ on Tuesday, but that’s on hold now too.
I’m deep in the squalor of that stage which I dislike the most, and yet by some quirk of the internet, is now the most important thing since Martin Luther King had a dream – making friends and following people. It would be easy for an opening paragraph like this to come across as cynical, even bitter perhaps. And so it damn well should. I have loads of friends, they are the lubricant of my dreams, but I mostly meet them in the bars of Paris – their IP addresses are as yet, unknown to me. But the friends I need these days live in Ulan Bator and Reykjavik, far flung distant lands with wifi – the friends of the new millennium.
In search of these people of fabled colour and form, I joined an online book club – for purposes of self-promotion and grand riches. “Promote your own book here” they belched proudly from their servers, “Just copy and paste your ISBN number into this nicely fashioned box, we will do the rest”. I felt the dapple of sunlight upon my cheeks, I could practically smell the coconuts. My book did not appear. Bugger.
Undeterred (as is my financial duty and want), I pasted said ISBN number into Google’s nicely fashioned search box also, and bingo, there I was, spread across the internet, across the entire universe, little old me and my 13 digit passport. And then I thought to myself, those digits have become my iris scan, they have propagated across the planet in a thrice and now Homeland Security know exactly who and where I am. It’s like when I used to travel through Dubai and immigration took everything, save collect my sperm for the fostering of relations, to identify me. That’s how it feels.
Is it too late to retract this dream, take back those numbers and say goodbye to my island in the sky? Is it?
When you are sitting alone at home, writing blog posts, and publishing them to a totally empty space somewhere in the digital ether, it can be a bit difficult, feel all a bit pointless. But writing blogs knowing that there is literally a slim, probably tiny, only theoretical chance that someone may, by absolute random crazy fluke of a moment, read it, somehow makes it all worthwhile. It just gets the, I don’t know, spine tingling and goosebumps a bumping. That’s how it felt today – tingly bumpy.
As I read these words back to me now, I register this profound feeling that in the totality of all civilisation, I may be the only person to read this post. Ever. Wow, what a first day!
Postscript: Yesterday I got a follower (yes, that’s you Fractured Faith Blog, BFF). I’m almost ashamed of writing this post now.
I am writing to you from my yacht. My book has been available on Amazon for a little over two days, and already I have sold three copies. I’m guessing this must be how JK Rowling felt when she published The Deathly Hallows – just sitting back and watching your future wash over you like warm urine. That’s what I’m doing on my yacht, pissing myself watching the tsunami of life dash me against the ruinous rocks
In other news:
Recent celebrity comments about ‘Looking for Eden’
“I don’t think I’ve heard of that book, let alone read it.”
Solomon Muinepe, Papua New Guinea Minister for Tourism
“If it came with sauerkraut, I’ve probably eaten it.”
Jurgen Schnitzel, German piano prodigy and member of the Vienna Chamber Orchestra
“Looking for Eden felt like scraping tarmac off my elbows.”