Tag Archives: Writer

Irvine Welsh …

Irvine Welsh …

Scottish novelist, playwright and short story writer Irvine Welsh is best known for his novel Trainspotting, which was later made into a film of the same name. His work is characterised by a raw Scots dialect and brutal depiction of Edinburgh life. He has also written plays and screenplays, and directed several short films.

In an interview with New York Times Style Magazine in 2016 for their A Writer’s Room series he spoke about his home office in Chicago.

I grew up in a small rabbit hutch of an apartment in the kind of municipal housing district that they called “projects” in the U.S. but are more tellingly referred to as “schemes” in Scotland. There was no room for bookshelves, so n the absence of somewhere to permanently reside, books tended to transition through our house and around the scheme. As a result, I like to have books about to delve into to inspire me; sometimes just a glance at the spine of a certain work will help.

My workspace in my Chicago home is usually ordered when I begin a project, but it descends into a mess of Post-it notes, photographs and articles stuck on the walls by the time I’m finished. You’re catching me quite early on in the game here. Music is very important in my writing. I have a playlist for each character and usually end up with a mixtape for every novel. Sometimes I get carried away and forget to write, but it’s never wasted, as something always resurfaces from my binges.

The space itself is really four areas: a library-type room with a large desk I can cover with a manuscript; an alcove with my decks and music; a smaller office with a whiteboard and reference books; and a balcony where I can sit outside and write in the sun, counting my blessings that I don’t have a real job to do. As much as I like this place, I try not to get too attached to it, and I therefore do a lot of work in coffee shops and on public transit. It’s important for me to be able to write anywhere and not get too precious about trying to chase the fool’s gold of optimum conditions.

I’m writing a book …

I’m writing a book …

Two men are talking in a pub. One says: “I’m writing a book.” The other says: “Neither am I.”

Peter Cook (1937~1995) – actor, satirist, writer and comedian.

I am the unwilling jailer of my thoughts …

I am the unwilling jailer of my thoughts …

I am the unwilling jailer of my thoughts and a slave to natural habit. Somewhere, in the hours that come to hand, there are stories I must tell.

Jerrard H. Sinclair (1848~1902)

I, Writer … # 16

I, Writer … # 16

Much of a Dayness (Part 1) … a.m.

I have been living in Full-Timeness for a little over a year now.
It’s hard to describe a typical day but with images taken here I will try.

At some point in the early morning I rise. This generally consists of a somewhat unwilling transition from horizontal to vertical. I open the blind and look out through the window just to make sure I’ve not been spirited away to the Village during the night.

I blink my eyes a few times. Everything looks normal. That’s definitely the garden out there. Good. I knew it wouldn’t let me down. Now I won’t have to answer any stupid questions about why I resigned. Not that I did. The security services are a bit neurotic about things like that. No. I went easy like a good man should.

Breakfast consists of a mug of tea, some sort of fruit and a Weetabix. Look, I am not going to show you a picture of a sodding Weetabix. Use your bloody imagination.

Also, at this time of day, there are people I am contractually obliged to communicate with. I therefore give my beautiful wife a good morning kiss. That is very easy as she is the love of my life.

There are plenty of important things I must do during the day. Rephrase. There are plenty of things I could be doing. Ought to be doing even. And if I could work out exactly what they were, together with the order I should be doing them in, then I probably wouldn’t be doing them in any case. It’s a pointless exercise. If the roof caves in then I will look at the sky. And if the sky caves in then I’ll just go back to bed.

But I must write. That is paramount. I work on a table in a cosy room next to the kitchen. I have a butterfly mind and find it very difficult to concentrate. But once I get going the time goes like a dream. At the moment I’m working on several things: some articles about our somewhat lengthy sojourn on the wonderful island of Corfu, a detective book and a poem about Scottish Independence. Maybe I should write a novel about a Scottish detective who goes for a holiday on Corfu … (???)

It is 1 pm. Where has the morning gone ?

The last train from Paddington …

The last train from Paddington …

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You write so beautifully …

You write so beautifully …

Writing is not a profession …

Writing is not a profession …