medical student, rugby union player
🔗 Read on Wikipedia1902 – 1920
In the early nineties, I was a cub reporter on a city newspaper in Limerick, and assigned to the courthouse there. One day, an old detective sergeant came and whispered to me in the press pit. He pointed out a young offender, a teenager who was up for stealing a car or something relatively minor, and said, 'See this kid? He'll kill.'
I miss journalism an awful lot.
I won't be happy until I'm up there, receiving the Nobel Prize.
A prize with money attached to it has a lot of prestige.
I am hugely insecure and desperate to be loved and I want my reader to adore me, to a disturbing, stalkerish degree.
I've been haunting bookshops and hiding behind display signs of TV chefs (Nigella is excellent to hide behind as she has a huge arse) as I spy on the short fiction section and see if anyone's tempted by my sweet bait. I've also been counting how many copies of the book are left in shops, and I've been covering other “upcoming” authors’ books with mine.
Art is a hideously painful business, you know. Pity me! Or at least buy me a drink.