The Pixies: Winter

When I wrote The Pixies, it was the Covid winter of 2020. Fun times. Nah, I'm kidding. It was fucking hell. That winter of 2020 had this brooding apocalyptic feel, that of slowly awaiting a meteorite or armageddon itself; the song "Caroline No" with its lyric "it's so sad to watch a sweet thing die" kept running through my head. There was snow everywhere but the white christmas made evrrything feel Stephen King and The Shining. A year later, when I saw Spencer, I recognised the vibe. I would bottle this feeling of religious apocalyptica later with my book, Tonight, also a winter book.

But The Pixies, with what started as anarchic chaos back in November 2020 had quickly turned exhaustive and dangerous. I was making terrible decisions, hurting others, being verbally abusive, disfiguring my life, disfiguring myself, casting a terrible spell. I turned into a pixie myself, this snatching little goblin.

With The Pixies, the Snoopy-Peanuts-Brave-Little-Toaster dream of Torn Pages finally died in a blitz of wings and fireworks. If I had to pick one decisive book in my life, it would be this one.