Hello there, how are you?
My name’s Ian Bird, and I live in an attic in the north-west of England. I’ve spent the last twenty years deliberately working for not-for-profits and accidentally writing not-for-profit, but I’ve hope for this new novel, Boneditch, yes I do. And if I want to eat that sandwich then I’d better finish this page soon.
I’ve been writing for about 25 years – in the neglected and unregarded garden of my past I have managed to cultivate an unreadable novel, a cute novel, a barking mad novel and half an almost-real novel: each story by and large comprising unlikely things happening to implausible people in the nick of time… And if you think I’m an abominable, mendacious liar whose tongue does nothing but spatter obsidian falsehoods into your face like the putrescent palpating gland of some creeping, slinking thing well, then, I applaud you for your cogent mastery of probability but nevertheless direct you to the website of clippings that I nurture here – https://mrcarapace.wordpress.com/.
That site’s a grab bag of blog pieces, snippets from my novels and stories, book reviews, travel writing and binge thinking… a pocket full of strangers’ teeth. This time around I’m trying to be a bit more pointed, like a pocket full of wolves’ teeth: a scrap book I’m putting together while I write the first draft of a novel that might actually work.
You can find me in my attic, or @mrcarapace, or standing in the corner of that school disco in 1990, or here.
Cheese, mayonnaise, chorizo, pickled onions and mustard, if you’re asking…