Kerry Hudson: Chatterbox

Come see me and other people

So I am no longer slave to office cubicle or, as Douglas Coupland so rightly called it, the veal pen. I am now a full-time writer and freelancer of um…words. Yes, that’s it, Kerry Hudson: Word Freelancer. Catchy right? If only I hadn’t already ordered my business cards which say, enigmatically I like to think, only ‘Kerry Hudson’.

Anyway, as accustomed as I have become to sitting on my morning commute responding to multiple writing work emails with a croissant jammed under one armpit, my headphones cord choking me, and my coffee clamped scorchingly between my knees, I am very, very happy indeed. 

So much so that I went out celebrating and caused carnage on the dancefloor below ( wearing jeans, t-shirt and trainers - the best dancing clothes obviously) that is, until 1am hit, when all I wanted was cheese on toast and jumper. Old age is so cruel.

This week I also got to fulfill a dream by reading at Foyles in Charing Cross. I used to go there and watch writers read and think ‘oh, maybe one day…’ It was the reading evening for The Author’s Club First Book Prize shortlist and a good event with all the right things: lovely authors, a great chair, a big, interested audience and free wine. If it hadn’t been for my unfortunate slippy dress/tall stool combo it would have been perfect. Anyway here we all are…from left: Suzi Feay, Lloyd Sheppard, Me, Ros Barber, Patrick Flanery, Sarah Ridgard…

Lastly, Scots, French people, PLEASE come see me over the next week…

Tomorrow night (20th) I’m doing a talk on the writing of Tony Hogan for Dunbarton Booked Festival at Balloch Library it’s free but you need to book: http://www.bookedfestival.info/adult-events/kerry-hudson/

Then I’m off to the Festival du Premier Roman in Chambery. I’m doing lots of events over the weekend. So if you’re in France come eat some cheese with me (that’s not an official programmed event, but still) http://www.festivalpremierroman.com/ED26/auteurs_europeens.html

I’m also doing some events in June including ‘Family Affairs’, part of the Holloway Arts Festival, on the 6th June and ‘Speak Easy’ at Drink, Shop, Do on the 12th June. 

Just as well I’m a Word Freelancer now eh? Wish me luck!

Life, work and running

Life

April was incredible but it almost broke me. After a month of working full-time, including London Marathon my busiest day job event of the year, celebrating the selling of Thirst for a near full week, and shuttling up and down the country attending the Aye Write Festival, Fire Station Bookswap, Polari and two events at Liverpool Literary Festival, I took to my bed for a full day to sleep and occasionally wake up mewling like a kitten before falling back into a sweaty slumber. Friends this is what happens when you do not allow your body to rest for 31 days. Do not do this. Actually DO do this…it was an incredible, joyful month. Here is a very tiny selection of my best bits:

Getting the Programme Director gossip in the green room at the Aye Write Fetsival after my event with Karen Campbell (she’s lovely and the lady talks sense) before proclaiming that I was off to ‘spend some time rolling about in my giant bed’ back at the hotel (it was a really, impressively big bed)// Telling the assembled audience at Bookswap that I’d take all my clothes off and dance around if the four minute warning sounded (I know, but it was the first thing that occurred to me…) and being shored up by the very funny indeed Will LeFlemming, Marie Phillips and Scott Pack // reading at the Southbank Centre and sharing a stage with the legendary Celia Imrie at Polari // spending a few days with the fabulous Simon Savidge rockpooling and eating caterpillar meringues at Liverpool Literary Festival after taking part in an event on class and publishing where the audience came prepared with (sometimes clipboards) of questions at a local community centre. As they would say in The ‘Pool is was bosker (actually I’m unsure if they would say that in Liverpool at all).

Work

On the 23^rd April I posted this on Facebook ‘In ten minutes I’m going to walk into my boss’s office and quit my job to be a full-time writer. I think I’ll remember this sunny morning.’ So that’s it. As of May 17^th I’m a writer proper. I can put it on forms in the occupation space and everything. I am going to focus on teaching creative writing and running my own workshops on finding the time, space and courage to make the jump and start writing your first novel. And writing, I’ll be doing lots of that too. I keep telling people I’m leaving work to go freelance but I haven’t worked out what I’m freelancing at yet. Anyway, if you want to hire me for um…something please do – I need some summer sandals and a haircut sometime this year.

Running

I am spending a lot of time in Lycra, sweating like Barry White, doing pointy finger dancing to my running compilation, knotting up my arms and legs in ‘stretches’ and doing walking lunges in front of highly amused basketball teams. Yep, I’m going to run Berlin Marathon on September 29^th for Freedom from Torture. So I’m running, yoga-ing and swimming up a storm. I want to say it is horrible because otherwise everyone will be disgusted with me but actually tiny voice I’m loving it, the most painful thing by far has been dropping some dollar on these ugly (but now beloved) special trainers. Between you and me I spend a lot of time fantasising I’m in an 80’s reinvention film (think Rocky, Private Benjamin, Terminator)…it’s not in any running book but by God it works a treat.

Never let it be said I do not milk a celebration

I’m thrilled and delighted and bloody cock-a-hoop generally to say that Chatto and Windus will officially be publishing my second novel, Thirst. I have loved every minute of working with Chatto (and their paperback imprint Vintage) on Tony Hogan so I’m thrilled to do it all over again with my new book. 

It seems I was actually doing something apart from cycling on my wee red bike, eating banana splits and watching Ingmar Bergman films at Cinematheque while in Hanoi. I wrote a love story too. 

I found out on Friday staring at a piece of graffiti saying ‘Stoner’ - there was a smiley face in the ‘o’ which I took as a good sign. 

This morning finds me gulping down a bucket sized black coffee and dancing on train platforms to this (listen you will dance with a giant smile on your face too) after a weekend of celebrations which included Mexican photography, Red Stripe and New Yorkers in Bowie masks, Soviet musicals, mock-up Japanese city plans, Guinness and folk music in a tiny pub, scampi and chips and a bedroom disco, afternoon Champagne and brownies and toddler piggybacks. Basically me just smiling like a loon for days. 

Like I say, I know how to milk a celebration. 

Never mind me what are you all up to?

Me? Working full-time again - on my commute I cocoon myself in a cave of music and dance on train platforms. Getting in my latest set of Thirst revisions in (yeehaa!) by the skin of my teeth, fueled by cake (porny picture thereof below) and Day Nurse and True Grit (yes, true grit my friends). Seeing some beautiful films like In the House (gorgeous cast and some fine acting) and The Late Quartet (where Philip Seymore-Hoffman broke my wee heart and had me weeping into my chocolate covered popcorn). Thinking about my next project (it might involve me travelling nomad style around Britain’s council estates). Meeting and chattering with the Green Carnation judges (lovely, just fucking lovely, the lot of em) and plowing(ish) through the books (there will be over 50, I am braced). Seeing art like the Bernadette Corporation at the ICA (as BC itself would say both dope and, like, nothing) and Black Eyes and Lemonade at The Whitechapel (it is glorious and witty and nostaligic). And writing a near-unreadable parenthesis laden paragraphs like this. 

I am also doing some stuff in April. Good, exciting STUFF: 

First up I’m at the Aye Write Festival in Glasgae appearing with the lovely Karen Campbell at 6pm on the 16th April 

Later in the month Simon Savidge will be putting me through my paces with not one but two panels at Liverpool Literary Festival. The first on Council Estate of the Mind: Literature and Class (29th April, 6.30pm – 7.30pm , Kuumba Imani, Millennium Centre Cafe, 4 Princes Road, Liverpool, L8 1TH with James Smythe and Claire McGowan) AND THEN on a debuts panel with Beatrice Hitchman, Sarah Butler, Gavin Extence and John Ironmonger (30th April, 6.30pm – 7.30pm , The Attic, 33-35 Parr Street, Liverpool L1 4JN) More details to be had on Simon’s website

Now? Now I’m going to put on old man pyjamas, eat some Marmite and toast and watch some Masterchef on my creaky little laptop.

Anyway, never mind me, what have you lot been up to? 

This is late because I am buried under a pile of work and compressed to about the size of a human Oxo Cube.

Travel friendly at least.

Anyhow, I was dead chuffed to be on this list naming Alex Clarke’s 20 possible hopeful contenders for the every-decade-and-legendary Granta ‘20 Under 40 list’ Thank very much indeed Alex.

And it was in the proper paper and everything….

I was robbed (again (not really))

So on Tuesday day I went through the Southbank Sky Arts Awards looking glass and had one of the strangest and funnest days ever. My choices in advance were simple: succumb to the terror of of P.E.N. (Posh Event Nerves as coined by my fabulously glamorous agent and Awards side-kick) or just enjoy the fuck out of it. I chose the latter. 

It was starry. Really, really starry. Julie Walters (one of my all-time heroes) accidentally nudged me and said sorry (that’s a word from her to me…I just grinned like a loon), Jessie Ware did a beautiful performance, we queued for the toilets behind Twiggy and shared a table with national treasure Grayson Perry, his fabulous wife Philippa Perry, the completely lovely Celia from Sky and Russell Kane…all brilliant company. Juliet got chatted up by beautifully tressed Cumberbatch (actually he asked her where we got our Raspberry Mojito’s but in my head that’s a declaration of love…). I finally got to meet Louise Welsh who’s been on my ‘give them a massive thank you and tell them I think they’re lovely list’ forever. Victoria Wood presented Julie with the lifetime achievement award, Melvin Bragg wrestled curling his tongue around my title and Hilary did a great video acceptance speech…I love that woman. If I’m going to lose to someone for the rest of my days, Ms Mantel’s my first choice.

So Hills got the gong and I got the fun. I squeed and grinned and stared all pop-eyed at all the starry folk like a cocktail-dressed, over-blow-dryed palomino pony. In no way did I play it cool. But I did have an absolute fucking ball.

I finished the evening eating pizza and drinking stout in my posh frock at the pub at the top of my road with a dear friend. As Tuesday’s go…yep, pretty bloody awesome really.  

Kerry Hudson: Deposhing even the poshest of events…

Hello. I am covered in toast crumbs trying to line my stomach before a 12 noon drinks reception.

I have a nice red manicure. I am moisturised to within an inch of my life. I am still wearing my pyjama bottoms and a hoodie.

In a wee while I’ll put on the black cocktail dress (that’s right people, I bought a cocktail dress) try on the 27 different shades of lipstick I’ve bought to match my ‘can’t believe my luck’ expression, hop into a taxi and go off to the Southbank Sky Arts Awards at the Dorchester where I’m hoping to see Hills continue her blaze of glory. I intend to smile ear to ear, enjoy the grub and bubbles and celebrate every minute of being nominated. 

Also, I’m aware that some of you may think I’m currently in a claw-footed bathtub filled with patisserie in Paris bemoaning my Anglo un-jutting collarbone. In fact, I’m at my kitchen table in my new lovely house, in my beloved Hackney eating lemon curd yogurt. I’m here to stay for a good long while and very happy about it too. 

Ok. I’m off to dance around my bedroom in my pants and curlers…wish me luck!

Not so much the underdog as the under-flea on the underdog…

It was 1am and I was sitting on my rucksack on the gleaming floor of Bangkok airport. I had snacks (cashew nuts, a slightly bruised apple, a green tea latte from the 7-11) my feet were filthy, I had sunburned shins and too broke/tight to pay for an airport hotel I was waiting it out until my 9am flight when I got the news I’d been shortlisted for a Southbank Sky Arts Award for literature along with Hilary Mantel and Will Self. My reaction? Holy. Fucking. Jesus. Christ.

Of course, I’m not so much the underdog as the under-flea on the underdog. But honestly, who gives a shit? I’m most comfortable as the underdog (no sniggering at the back of the class please). It is an absolute fucking complete honour to be shortlisted alongside Mantel and Self and something I’m so grateful for. I’m going to buy a new frock (no, I can’t really afford one and yes, I will get it wrong and it will almost definitely too short and wholly inappropriate). I’ll get a free lunch. I’ll get to go goggle famous folks (how do they get so shiny-sheeny?). I still can’t quite believe it but it’s on the internet so it must be true.

Plus I am back in absolutely bloody beautiful London. I’ve never been more adoring of this city as I have been in the last few days. The pleasure of a freezing muddy walk on the Heath, toast dripping with butter and Marmite, Stout and sausage-rolls in old man pubs and too much wine and threats of a barring from Camden Mecca Bingo (don’t ask), long bus journeys with a cup of coffee, good music and the soaking city sliding by…today, the Southbank’s Poetry Library and a whole afternoon of writing…

Sorry, I worry that this blog is becoming just a long glut of happy, grateful wordy gurgles…but as I say, who gives a shit? I am happy. I am grateful. And now I’m off out onto the shining nighttime streets of London town. 

On monkeys, magpies and sleeping in airports

I am sleeping in Bangkok Airport tonight. I love airports, full of greetings and goodbyes, essentially full of stories and human intrigue. Tomorrow morning I’ll board my flight back to beautiful, bursting, brilliant London. Only for two weeks when I’ll reacquaint myself with Hackney and the people whose faces I’ve missed and spend a lot of time at the Southbank revising up a storm. After that it’s off to Paris for six weeks working. I love Paris too, I’ve never been there in springtime and I am fantasising about all that beautiful light (and cake) (and vintage shopping) (and their excellent, excellent library).

After that? Who knows. 2013 is joyfully unstructured for me though I do have the Aye Write Festival, Firestation Bookswap and Polari in April, a month Supervising at Cambridge’s Pembroke College with the National Academy of writing in August, the launch of the French edition of Tony Hogan. I suspect this year has some more surprises ahead too.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my transient, fly by the seat of my pants lifestyle which really, is just my pursuit of freedom to write. People have taken to asking me particular questions ‘don’t you get lonely?’ (yes, sometimes, doesn’t everyone) don’t you wish you had a home? (define home), aren’t you worried about leaving it too late to settle down? (would you ask a man in his early thirties that same question?) The truth is this: writing and living fully and decently are my absolute priorities for this year. If I have time to read and work and have small adventures each day then I think I will become a better writer, that it will make for better books in time to come.

I am a glutton for sights, smells, noises, new people and trying to understand my reactions to unfamiliar circumstances as they quickly change colours like oil on water. I think of each new place as a visit to a library, or a penny sweet shop, I think I am filing pieces of places away or shoving them messily inside a straining rucksack for a future story. It won’t always translate in the way I expect; a Thai train guard who shouted at me for making my own bed on a sleeper train will become a check-out girl in a Hackney, Tesco Metro who thinks customers always pack their carrier bags wrong. I want to think that these new things, from my beginning in Hanoi to Hackney to Paris, are the laying down of breadcrumbs or the planting of tiny, shining black seeds.

I used to call this curiosity the monkey on my back; constantly pulling at my hair, aroused and morbidly fascinated by everything I saw and experienced – it hasn’t always been a benevolent pet either. I’ve wondered recently if writers ever experience anything authentically, purely, without placing a narrative upon it, or plucking off the shiny bits for their collections like magpies. But maybe that’s a post for another time. ..

It’s no accident that writers often travel. Theroux, Sackville-West, Wolstonecraft, Capote, Fitzgerald, Greene and Hemingway are just the ones that instantly spring to mind. Writers are natural tourists: outsiders and scavengers of curious things. I return to the UK with work done and more work to do, a monkey on my back, a magpie nesting in my hair and a desire to stay a tourist for wee while longer yet.

See you back in London folks. 

What Can I Say Except Thank You Very Fucking Much

Dear 2012,

You’ve been a blinding, brilliant one and I couldn’t have asked for anything more from you. 

This year Tony Hogan came out and its publication brought more than I could ever have hoped for. I did interviews and got reviews. Tony Hogan made some short/end of year lists. I did some incredible events. I wrote stories for magazines and Sunday supplements. I traveled to Edinburgh, Poland and then all the way back to my adopted Hanoi. I met some of the most decent/smart/gentle writers/readers/booksellers I could imagine. People contacted me to tell me that Tony Hogan/the Ryan women/Janie’s striving for more touched something in them or helped them or just gave them a good laugh or a cry - those have been the best moments really.  

2012, you have been a gift to me and I’ve not stopped being grateful for it all for even a minute.  I promise I thank my lucky stars every single day and know how lucky I’ve been.

Tomorrow I’m spending the night on a farm up in the Hanoian mountains. I’m going to eat cake, drink whisky by a campfire under smoggy stars, wish happy birthdays and another year with good things to come. It feels like the perfect way to part ways with a wonderful year. 

Like I say, thank you very fucking much you’ve been an absolute beauty.