Nachtclubbing

I'd be writing this from Berlin if it wasn't for the 100 per cent letting agency surcharge. Twelve months in that city would suit me down to the ground. No phone or TV and I blocked out my next two projects, and the electro / neu-Goth scene is the best: sexy, trim, retro, fun. (The next big thing, imho.) Still waiting on feedback from the ms. London: raining, but it's spring. Which is the equivalent of good cheer in the face of a terminal diagnosis.

Must stop making jokes like that Now That I Am Older.

Another week, another fictional work of non-fiction. Charles Pellegrino's The Last Train From Hiroshima has been revealed to have been fudged a bit. Critic Motoko Rich's article in the New York Times also mentions Margaret Seltzer's faked gang memoir and good old James Frey. It's wrong to market fiction as non-fiction but what this proves in my eyes is that again and again, the facts of the author's existence bear no relation to the degree to which their work can convince a reader, let alone editors. I was raised a modernist: the author should be invisible. And the celebrity author culture that publishers hope will save them, won't. (Unless of course I became one, in which case I would be rowing as fast as possible.)

The electrovamp is Mme Olivia Wilde in Tron: Legacy. More spoilers at Aintitcool.com.