I’d anticipated a year heavy on literary events, what with BEA coming up in May, then my second annual trip to the Edinburgh International Literary Festival in August, but  it’s been late starting. That’s due mostly to my brutal work schedule – my day job, the one that actually pays the bills. Three days a week I work until 8 p.m., on Fridays ’til 7, and I also work the mornings and early afternoons on Saturdays. That leaves me with only Tuesdays and Sundays as full days off – not a lot of freedom in that schedule.

My first literary event of 2016 is next week’s Irvine Welsh reading, courtesy of the Chicago Humanities Fest. It’s scheduled on a Tuesday, for which I heartily thank the CHF. Bless you for taking my restricted schedule into account. It really does revolve around me.

Welsh’s latest novel, by my count, will be his 11th. I feel a little sheepish admitting I’ve never read a full novel by Irvine Welsh, having started then quickly abandoned Trainspotting. And no, I haven’t seen the film adaptation, though I do own it, which is the first step.

My best laid plans to contact Welsh’s agent to beg for a review copy and interview were blown to hell when my review schedule exploded. That isn’t a complaint, though. I have pretty sweet gigs. Still, it would have been great. Maybe next time. The consolation of seeing him next week will have to do.

Here’s a preview, to whet the appetite for his new book:

Now that’s puzzling, isn’t it. It explains why I haven’t managed to make it through one of the guy’s books. It’s not like me to give up easily, so I’m not letting this stop me. It’s the same language, right?

Kind of?

Welcome literary 2016. It’s about damn time.