Authors Electric

Jan's frankly hilarious and utterly untoppable piece yesterday got me to thinking about the various things various authors say they're not so keen on in the modern age. And it struck me that one of the things that regularly tops such lists is the expectation that we do readings as part of the endless publicity mill. Now, I've been a 24 carat spotlight junkie since way before I decided to throw my writing into the public arena, spending several years with a borderline addiction to appearing on cheesy TV gameshows and regularly crossing the street at the sight of a local news camera or microphone in the hope of grabbing an interview about whatever rent-an-opinion they are interested in today. So I've never really understood the antipathy to the limelight. As with many others who suffer from depression, I think it probably comes down to the fact that behind a microphone, or in front of a camera, you can lose yourself entirely and immerse yourself in another world, the worl...

This post is the result of a confluence of Karen's wonderful post about where we read and a photographic series I'm doing over on tumblr . And a lifelong crush on Lucinda Lambton. It's where many of us do much of our reading. And it's the only room in the house to have spawned a whole genre designed to be read in it (Schott's Miscellany, 21st Century Dodos etc). Yet we rarely celebrate the place itself. So here's to the literary loo. The three specimens on this page are from three of the shows I've performed at lately. And in each case it's a fabulous indicator of the show itself. 93 Feet East in Brick Lane is home to FULLFAT , a fabulous spoken word night run by Orange Prize judge, former Oxford University Poetry Society President, and stunning poet Clarissa Pabi. It's edgy, loud, full of fire and passion and one of those atmospheres that feels like it could explode at any moment into something spontaneous and remarkable. The night I was on the bill...