Hello! I'm Kirsty Logan, an award-winning, widely-published writer of short fiction and journalism. My first book, The Rental Heart and Other Fairytales, is out now.
I'm 29 and live in Glasgow, where I mostly hang out with my girlfriend Annie and our dog Rosie, read ghost stories, drink coffee, make things for my flat, listen to riot grrrl, & wish I was closer to the sea.
“Batman is a game where we go into the spare room and lock the door and strip to our knickers. One girl lies on the bed and the other girl balances on the windowsill with a blanket around her shoulder like a cape and whispers Batman.”
“When I was 16, I had a website. It was dreadful, obviously. I was into kinderwhore and riot grrrl and fairytales and confessional, but I did it all in this awful cack-handed teenage way, so it was just bad poetry, lists of my favourite song lyrics, and photos of me reading books in my underwear or pouting in torn slip dresses and a tiara (see photographic evidence).”
“We wrote poems for each other and made them into artwork with smudged pastels and Barbie plasters and the blades from our Lady Bics. We imagined we were part of the great heritage of lesbian artists. We were terribly misunderstood.”
“Back then, I wanted attention. I wanted people to look at me and think that I was worth their time. Taking my clothes off seemed like a short cut: everyone wants to look at nude 18 year-olds. Now I don’t get naked for attention, but I do wonder whether my writing is based on the same need for recognition.”
“I knew what sex was in the way that most eleven year-olds know what sex is: cartoonish illustrations in a ‘My Body’ book, whispered exchanges in the playground, the half-naked women on the front of my father’s collection of sci-fi novels, the time I crept downstairs when my parents were having a dinner party and watched Sliver from behind a cushion. This was not enough. I was curious.”
“It’s not that I’ll reject your story just because I don’t like you; it’s that the presence of certain elements (such as “you girls,” or dogs, or funerals) set off my Bad Writer Radar. Rejection is nothing personal, except that this time maybe it is a bit personal, because you just made it personal.”
“The problem with fairy tales is that they are more than just old stories. They’re mythic cultural knowledge: they have been removed from their sociological roots to float in a timeless limbo, seeping into all of us since childhood.”
“My girlfriend and I, still wrapped up in honeymoon love, had no interest in the company of others. We stocked up on straight-to-the-oven lamb chops, DVDs of true crime documentaries, and a small forest of alcohol bottles. It was going to be a good night.”
“Playing around with prose sestinas, cobbling together screenplays for my filmmaker brother, writing a new NaNoWriMo novel every year — surely they weren’t going to give me letters after my name for this. It wasn’t work. I could do this shit forever, if only some sucker would pay me.”
“Every week I work as a waitress to earn enough to buy a little free time for writing, and then I spend my hard-won Wednesday morning playing silly Facebook games and making unnecessarily complicated plans for lunch.”
“I wrote about how other people had eaten my heart, and the hearts I ate in revenge. It was uncomfortable to write and even more uncomfortable to read. It was my soft underbelly tilted up to the light; my dark heart made into words. But it was not exactly true.”
“It’s 1 a.m. at the launch of a queer feminist zine called Lock Up Your Daughters and I’m starting to get bored, so I lean over to my friend Paul, who has tattoos all down his arms of cherry blossoms and tea-cups, and I say I like that girl.”