Just read Super Sad True Love Story

Aye Write is next weekend in Glasgow, and I was delighted when I saw Gary Shteyngart on the schedule. This book has had huge press in America, and I've read some snarky, hilarious interviews with him. He doesn't take himself seriously, but takes his writing seriously. I always try to know the work of the people I go to see, and I'm so very glad I picked this book up.


It's a love story set in a dystopian America in the not-too-distant future, where technology is part of life thanks to everyone's äppäräti, which reveal everything from credit ratings to romantic history to the last film someone has watched. The fashion of the day is translucent jeans called 'onionskins', privacy is taboo, and youth is lionized. The story is a postmodern Romeo and Juliet but the setting is glorious, frightening, and completely believable. I can't stop thinking about this story, and wish I could discuss it with someone - it's that kind of book. Shteyngart's event next Saturday is sure to be a corker.

"And where is this festival?" - German woman to Edinburgh tourist info guy

Dallas Ryan was a guy who used to do shows with me when I was a preteen. He was probably in his mid-20s (I just thought of him as 'old') and he did summer stock theater in my hometown. He was fantastic - a fabulous, flamboyant tenor from upstate New York who was charming and fun and didn't treat me like a kid. He used to wax lyrical about the Edinburgh Festival and how it was the pinnacle of all international arts gigs. I've wanted to go ever since.

I spent half of August in Edinburgh, and I'd go back in a heartbeat. It's a glorious city even in the doldrums of winter, and the energy explodes during the Festival. Anything goes. Attire, face paint, concepts, ideas - it's all there, swimming around together, clashing, creating.

Highlights: The Magnets, a five-part harmony and beatboxing group.

Five Guys Named Moe with Clarke Peters who is the grooviest man on the planet.

Baby Wants Candy, a hilarious improv group that created a musical just for us called "The Polar Bear Who Came For Dinner".

Fame-o-meter: Clarke Peters, of course, who hung out at a bar near the venue numerous times. That man exudes coolness. And McNulty was there one night, too. Some very fat man from the PG Tips tea advertisements and a few other British slebs I didn't know. And the many, many wonderful writers who graced the Book Festival.

Leading us neatly to...the best Edinburgh Bookfest I've attended. Excellent workshops, approachable authors, intelligent attendees. My new friend Francesca wrote a brilliant love letter to the Book Festival on her blog. We met thanks to Twitter. Oh, did I mention I went to my first Tweetup?

Nicola Morgan is a writer who gives (far too) much of her time to newbies and unpublished writers. Thanks to her I now have a dozen new Twitter writer friends. We had a great afternoon in the Charlotte Square sunshine. She's @nicolamorgan.

Back in Inverness now, and still buzzing...what a lucky person I am to have a freelance job that means I can be in places like Edinburgh in August.

Word nerds

For the past three years, August has meant the Edinburgh Book Festival; I even planned our honeymoon last year around certain events. I'm that much of a book geek.

Book festivals are marvelous, and Scotland is lucky to have dozens to visit each year. And Edinburgh is Mecca. The place is bustling from 10am until the wee hours. Staff are friendly. Visitors are chatting, smiling, queuing. And authors are approachable.

The magic lies in this: accessibility. Actors are on a stage or a screen; rarely do they muddle with fans. Artists aren't often present at galleries or museums. Authors, however - they're active. They take our questions and answer them, looking into our eyes. They are vulnerable, behind a microphone with only a moderator between them and an audience. It can't be comfortable.

I saw Christos Tsiolkas on Saturday (author of The Slap). He was brilliant: compelling, controversial, frank. Even a bit nervous. He had a lot to say that caused a bit of furor in the broadsheets by claiming that recent European fiction was 'dry and academic, and not in the best way, but in a cheap, shitey way'. Didn't go over too well with this crowd, but I can see where he's coming from. Fiction should challenge us, should force us into the uncomfortable and the awkward and make us sit up and listen to our prejudices, our ideas of justice, our assumptions. His book was the first in a long time that I've recommended to every reader who can handle it. It's a tough book; it's not pretty, it's not filled with beautiful prose or lilting description or Hollywood endings. But it's real, aggressive, fiction. Tsiolkas did not disappoint, either.

Book festivals have the readers devouring books, discussions that continue long after the author has finished, advice that is golden. But book festivals also challenge us. They allow us to be intellectuals without seeming pretentious. They allow authors to put themselves among the reading public as ideas simmer and dive and soar. They give us proof that in a world of reality TV and video games, reading is still alive.

The book everybody likes hasn't yet been written. - Kevin MacNeil

I am still buzzed from the weekend. Shetland hosted a film and book festival (called Screenplay and Wordplay respectively) which was fantastic. On Saturday I got to participate in an excellent workshop with Kevin MacNeil. MacNeil has written every genre and type of book/play/poem out there, and has a keen eye for detail and using all 5 senses to transport the reader deep into the story. He had everyone in the room write a 400-word Flash Fiction piece, using one of the following perimeters: a) A dream you remember; b) The last time you thought, 'wow'; c) Your first ever memory. He gave us about 40 minutes to write, and less than half turned up for the second part of the workshop. The outcome was interesting, as the group was filled with people from every walk of life imaginable on this small island, from fishermen to doctors to teachers to elderly ladies who publish poems in the local newspaper. The stories were all of a similar vein, however, and dealt with memories, not dreams. Perhaps dreams are too private to share, or too difficult to translate into words. I read mine first; my voice wavering and my hands shaking. I don't like reading aloud, not my work, not to strangers. It feels like an intrusion.

In a place as small as Shetland, it's easy to truly feel the vibe of greatness oozing from people like Iain Banks and Denise Mina and Kevin MacNeil. I saw many readings in this two-day event, and each author took the time to answer questions both in front of the group and afterward. I've been to numerous book festivals where the authors are cattle-prodded through reading and signing and reading and signing, and Shetland was refreshingly void of all pretense. The authors all stayed in the hotel next to our flat, and I was even invited to a drinking sesh last night with the heavyweights (which I respectfully declined, knowing my knees were shaking enough when meeting Iain Banks let alone having a beer with him. I would spill it on his shoes.).

It's weird being star-struck by writers who are keen to know about your own quest for your writing voice. In America, I often felt that other writers were more concerned about the competitive nature of publishing and marketing than of nurturing the writers within. And festivals are often so huge that they feel contrived. This was a good weekend for me, to be around writers who are keen to hear about the successes and pitfalls of those of us new to this animal. I had some great conversations with people who have made this scribbling their careers, and all of them were positive, encouraging, and eager to help with contacts in the UK should I stay here long-term.

Saturday night we were all invited to a ceilidh (kay-lee for y'all non-Gaelic speakers) in the south of the island. The hospital pharmacist and his wife told all the junior docs and medical students (and, by default, me) to come down for the dance and to crash at their charming croft house by the sea. We were less than half the age of most of the attendees, and once they were used to us, they welcomed us with open arms and feet. The band played traditional ceilidh music, with fiddle, guitar, accordion and drums, and the number of dances filled an A4 piece of paper. Of course we joined in - and once the regulars knew that we were all pathetic, they were kind enough to guide us all through it. All in all a fantastic evening of traditional Shetland music and dancing.

Weekends like this are why I was so excited to move here.

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. - Ray Bradbury

I sent it off yesterday, all 82,000 words of it. I had nightmares last night that I had forgotten to spellcheck and that the chapters were in a haphazard order when my agent received it. I also have begun to dream about my characters. A shrink would probably have a heyday with that.

I'm devouring books right now. When you're trying to be a better writer, reading isn't for pleasure. It's research. It's a classroom and a tutor and a lecturer and the guy at the back of the room who cheats off his peers. I can learn something from everything that is in print, even if it's how not to do something. The sins against the written word are numerous, and as a lexical snob, I am offended when I read something with weak plot twists, poor characterization, or unnatural dialogue. I have copious notes on how to completely lose the reader. I am equally thrilled when I find myself re-reading page upon page of beautifully written prose. Then it's learning from the masters. Then I get to balance imitation with my own creativity.

I just checked my e-mail and my agent has received the manuscript and is looking forward to reading it. My stomach just did a flip-flop just seeing her name in my inbox. I feel like a 12-year-old with a crush.

Good stuff of late: Bret Easton Ellis' Lunar Park, Iain Banks' The Wasp Factory, Marian Keyes' Anybody Out There (Keyes is among the best 'chicklit' authors, and this novel has stuck with me for numerous reasons). The others I've read have sadly been forgettable.

Banks is coming to Lerwick this weekend as part of Wordsmith, the Shetland book festival. It is showcasing writers from all over the UK, and I am especially excited to hear the local scribes read from their writings in their distinct dialect and voices. I'm attending a couple of writing workshops too, as it's always good to hear how others approach things.

Next steps are to continue work on a novel I began last spring that takes place in Lisbon, and do more work on a darker piece on domestic violence that I've been working on for nearly a decade. I'm not sure which one the muses will choose, but I'm ready when they are.