2009, We Hardly Knew Ye
It’s only when I finally give in and say I can’t possibly do something that I actually get off my arse and do it. Why is that? Anyway, here is my afore-promised:
Two Thousand and Nine In Kirsty-Shaped Review
I appear to have done nothing at all in January except be hungover and write bad poetry. So let’s skip quickly over it.
New work in Chronogram, Salome, Velvet.
Spent a week in Alicante
New work in Membra Disjecta, Swamp.
Compered a night of readings at the Glasgow Women’s Library.
New work in Likestarlings, Salome, six sentences, Queer Zine Lit.
Spent two weeks in Tokyo.
Honourable mention in the 5th Glass Woman Prize.
Won the 43rd Balticon Poetry Contest.
Read at the launch of the Triangle multimedia project.
New work in Word Riot, Circlet, The Foliate Oak, 4 & 20.
Won the Gillian Purvis Award; used the prize money to launch Fractured West.
New work in Soundzine, From East to West.
Moved in with my beautiful girlfriend Susie.
Shortlisted for the Glasgow Student Short Story Prize.
Started writing articles.
New work in Gutter, Scapegoat Review.
New work in Moondance, Circlet.
Started writing non-fiction and personal essays.
New work in Wigleaf, .Cent, Writers’ Bloc, Clean Sheets.
Officially finished my MLitt with a Distinction.
Won a New Writers Award.
Started writing music reviews for Wears the Trousers.
Started teaching Stolen Stories, a writing class on mythology/history/fairy tales.
New work in Popshot, Existere, Oysters & Chocolate, Letters From the City, Circlet, The Pygmy Giant, Branta.
New work in Writers’ Bloc, Neon.
Finished NaNoWriMo for the third year running.
Like January, December appeared to consist mostly of red wine and bad poetry, so I’ll skip neatly over that too.
Looking back at 2009, it looks like I did a lot. I did some travelling, got plenty of work published, and even managed to win some awards and grants. It seems like I never stopped moving. But all I see is the things I didn’t manage to do: finish my novel, write the final paragraph of my lesbian Cinderella story, or get the editor of the Sunday Herald to return my emails.
It’s silly, really; if I saw the above list on someone else’s website I would probably be jealous; but I just fixate on what was not done. Is it because my fear of being complacent makes me fundamentally dissatisfied? Because I am obsessed with being on the Granta’s Best Young British Novelists list before I’m 30? Because the only point of being a waitress is that you’re a hidden genius? Because I’m a first-born child?
I have no idea. But this year I’m going to sellotape my bum to my chair, speaking in monosyllables and eschewing all sustenance except strong coffee and cereal bars, until that damn novel is finished. My girlfriend will love that.