AUTHOR PROFILE AND BOOK EXTRACT

Marian Keyes’s newly released collection of autobiographical writing, Making It Up As I Go Along, is a huge treat. Big on beauty products, big on sleep, big on travel, big on Twitter, big on family and big on ‘Himself’, Marian lets us in on her life with

Marian Keyes lets us in on her life. PLUS read an extract from her collection of autobiographical writing, Making It Up As I Go Along

hate making small talk. It’s actually saying nothing. I’d rather have a meaningful conversation. Small talk is mostly not honest, so it’s very hard work! I’m grand with being honest as it’s not work. That’s also why I decided, very early on, that I would never hide stuff in my public life.

With Twitter, I can dip in and out as it suits me. I can step away from it in a way that I can’t step away from a cocktail party where I’m having to make polite conversation about the weather and travel.

My experience on Twitter has made me believe in goodness, in the niceness of people. But I’m not a controversial tweeter. I don’t like being mean about anyone. If you don’t generate it, you don’t attract it.

I’ve never been on Facebook.

My life is very ordinary. And that’s exactly the way

I want it. I’m part of the community; I live near my family. Nobody asks for selfies. The Irish are defiantly democratic – everybody’s the same, so nobody is made a fuss of in Ireland, nobody. I get more attention when I’m abroad – and that’s always been nice – but mostly people don’t say anything at all, which suits me.

I met Tony, my husband [aka ‘Himself’], through Suzanne, my sister from another mister. She and I were flatmates in London, and she worked with him.

Our relationship spanned the two me’s – the

drinking Marian and the sober Marian. When I was drinking, Tony wasn’t my type at all. He’s very kind, but the old me would have mocked kindness as being boring. I liked the bad boys because I had no selfrespect. After I went into rehab and stopped drinking, I started living very differently. And I was ready to have a different sort of relationship. I was able to see the goodness in Tony. He’s such a sweetheart and I love him so much. I’m phenomenally lucky to have met him.

I know this sounds incredibly depressing, but we have to lower our expectations of our relationships! I’m just a flawed human being; I’m not the answer to anyone’s dreams, so I shouldn’t expect that from anybody else. But if you’re lucky enough to meet somebody who treats you well, pay attention.

You have to keep recalibrating your relationship. We’ve been together for 21 years, married for 20, but you can never take your relationship for granted. It’s a constant process of renegotiation and adapting to the changes that life brings.

We wanted to have children but we couldn’t, and maybe that’s made us closer.

He’s very positive. I’m not. It’s handy to have someone uplifting around me.

I joke that he knows everything – and it can be infuriating when I’m arguing a point – but I like that about him.

I wouldn’t have my 20s back for

anything. The insecurity, the fear, the worry about how my life would turn out. I’ve felt safer as I’ve grown older. I love being 52. I’m much more outgoing and connected to people, a bit more sure of who I am. Life is very nice at the moment, and I’m grateful.

Fifty isn’t what it used to be. It’s the new 33. It’s not what I was told to expect. You can still wear nice clothes, and live an active, engaged, fulfilled life.

I’ve always been sort of invisible, but I’m even more invisible now. It happens when you get to a certain age. I’m often left waiting to be served. But I don’t mind calling people out on it.

My humour is genetic. I know no other way to be. I come from a line of funny women. My mother is hysterical. Nobody makes me laugh like she does. And her mother was the same. Even though I’m prone to pessimism and suffer from depression, I value humour.

It’s an Irish thing. Himself – Tony – is English and he says the Irish are sparkly, entertaining and great storytellers. Because Ireland was a colony, we couldn’t speak our own language, play our own music, practise our religion or be employed. So one of the few things available to us was words. Humour and words became our survival mechanism. Irish people put a huge premium on being entertaining. Nothing is conveyed matter-of-factly.

I love to communicate with words. I’ll always write, even if it’s only on Twitter. I find the structure and commitment of novels c challenging but I love doing it. If I run out of steam, I’ll continue with non-fiction. People seem to relate to w what I write, which is lovely for me. It gives me self-worth, I suppose.

I’d love to write a dystopian novel. But I don’t know if I have the talent for it. A week ago I had one of those vivid, mad dreams you have just before you wake up. I was writing this fantastic dystopian novel. Then I woke up and it made no sense, which was disappointing. I’d love to give it a go.

I find it difficult to ever be truly at peace. There’s always something that feels like a shark relentlessly on the prowl, somewhere deep in my psyche. Even though I’ve been given an amazing life, it’s difficult to get the shark to stop moving.

It’s not been that long since I was so mad in the head that I couldn’t even get out of bed. I had to keep my life very small and safe because it was all I could cope with.

When I was really ill, I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t even read magazines. The connections in my brain weren’t working. And though I feel well now, the whole horrible experience altered me neurologically. I’m not as quick as I used to be. The crafting of a good sentence is far more challenging. But maybe I would have been like this anyway – I’m older!

If I’m troubled with low-level depression, doing something worthwhile can make me feel more worthwhile. One thing I find incredibly bleak-making is when another day has passed and I’ve achieved nothing. US actor Wentworth Miller said his depression has cost him relationships, time and opportunities. I feel it has cost me time. And words. And that’s very frustrating.

Be nice. If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything.

This sounds incredibly bleak but I find it helpful: one day we’ll all be dead and none of this will matter. That keeps things in perspective if I miss a flight or something.

Our relationship spanned the two me’s – the drinking Marian and the sober Marian. When I was drinking, Tony wasn’t my type at all.