The Observer
Marian Keyes, novelist, 40, Dublin
I was born without the rule book. When every one else
was at a briefing on how to deal with life I must have been off looking
at shoes or something. I never felt comfortable in my own skin.
My first book, Watermelon, practically wrote itself. In
fact I couldn't type fast enough. Writing everything after has been like
pulling teeth.
At 30 I thought my life was over. I thought I'd have made
something of myself by then, that life would somehow have made the necessary
arrangements - but actually I had nothing. It was just before I started
writing and I'd spent eight years wreaking resentment in an office. The
resentment was actually so strong you could have photographed it. You can't
imagine anybody more sour faced. Part of my job involved handing out the
petty cash and, Christ, you'd have thought I was giving away my own money.
Mo Mowlam is my heroine. I once lent her my comb at an
awards ceremony. I was thrilled.
Alcoholism is a disease of terminal uniqueness. Nobody had ever
suffered like I was suffering.
I'm lucky. My family discuss my 'dark time'. My alcoholism
and suicide attempt haven't become a terrible sacred cow. I'd hate to be
so narky that nobody could enjoy a drink around me.
My mother is in denial about my adult status. Although
we moved back to Ireland and live up the road from her she never comes round
because she won't acknowledge I have my own house. Every Thursday we go
to hers for tea. She does either spaghetti bolognese or chicken casserole
on a strict rotation system. It's a certainty.
Allegedly the population of Dublin is one million. I think
it's really only 13. Why else do I keep seeing the same people? They do
the rest with mirrors.
I bought new trainers to go into rehab. I thought I'd just spend my time
there in the gym and come back gorgeous and skinny with brilliant skin.
There was no gym.
I'm curious about Bacardi Breezers. They came out after
my cut-off date so I'll never know what they taste like. Are they nice?
Nuns in Nissan Micras are the bane of my life. They're
feckin' eejits who drive at 28mph in the outside lane. I go right up behind
them and gesticulate but nothing could penetrate their forcefield of righteousness.
Money can be corrupting. Nine years ago when I got the
advance that changed my life I lost a close friend. She cried when she heard
and said nothing would ever be the same again. My family wouldn't ask for
a penny. I once tried to pay the milkman when I was round at my parents
getting my spaghetti on a Thursday. It turned into hand-to-hand combat with
my mother.
I absolutely love children, but we haven't been able to have any.
Still, Tony and I are planning to shop my brother and his wife
to social services so we can have theirs. Previously we offered them cash.
Everything Irish was crap when I was growing up. We had
a massive inferiority complex. It's funny because I only felt validated
as a writer when the British started saying nice things about my books.
Now as a nation we've become as cocky as hell. The Celtic tiger bubble has
burst, but I hope we stay confident. It's a very good thing.
I miss the free-flowing traffic of London. Honestly. Oh,
and I miss the shoe shops.
My vice is compilation albums. I don't use them properly.
Take my disco-hits compilation CD in my car. I just play 'Carwash' on a
loop. I don't even know what the other 'hits' are.
Do I mind being called a chick-lit writer? Well it's not
the worst thing that could happen. I've made peace with myself over what
I write and I work very hard to do my best for myself and my readers. Having
said that, if I do get a bad review I still have to fight the urge to go
and burn their house down.
Los Angeles is hell. I flew out feeling reasonably attractive.
After three days I felt like a freckle-skinned, hunchbacked monster with
the world's largest knockers. I'm in no rush to return.