Moon Man - On Air

Tonight, I had my first radio interview. I'd like to say it was my first ever media interview. But that would be a lie. (If you click here, you can see some early linguistic talent, like "I'd had friends who'd come over and done the exchange", from an interview I gave in 2005 about studying in California.) Tonight's momentous event focused on moonwalking - the hobby, the attraction and the travels.

OK, I must point out that the interview was for Source FM. What, you haven't heard of Source? It's Falmouth's local radio station. And lots of good friends and old tutors and editors and writers and folk present shows. It's known for its quirky, whimsical approach to radio. And how whimsical to talk about moonwalking after a piece on George Clooney and a pier.

Though it did get a bit heavy with talk of charity. And dogging.

How do you prepare for a radio interview? I spent the afternoon meeting a lovely moon poet called Penelope (Penny) who bought me tea in the Royal Festival Hall on the South Bank. Though that meet nearly didn't happen when I hopped in the Hall's lift with the maintenance guy and tried to descend into the workings of the building. Thankfully, he stopped me before I got lost. And before I broke anything.

I got home a little before I was due on air (sorry, that's technical media talk for...on air) and researched, read up on moon facts, practised JFK's moon speech, cleared my airways. No, of course I didn't. We all know how useless I am at preparation. I worried about tripping over long words like "moon", or accidentally telling people about my bowels or something. Thankfully, that didn't happen. But I did suggest I'd killed a man by pushing him over a cliff by full moon ("because it's easier to see the edge by full moon" - Lord).

The presenter, Tina, spoke to me after the show and said I did "great". Which, to be completely honest, came as a big surprise. Because I also hinted that Pendennis Point in Falmouth is a good place to watch people in cars having sex. And I may have compared myself to George Clooney. God, thinking back, "great" is completely the wrong word.

Tina tells me she may be able to email me the interview. If she does, don't worry, I will burn it for you. Bring on my first TV appearance!

Moon Man

Today I'm writing my chapter breakdown for "Moonwalking". I know, revealing secrets here. Well, not really. To pitch a book to a publisher I need a breakdown of my adventures: one page as a substitute for a chapter. It's not easy. So much has happened this year; so many people, so many coincidences, so much out-of-the-ordinary adventure. And they want me to tell it in 14 pages.

One thing that jumps out during this process is the development of my story. I've started to realise just how life-changing moonwalking has been - how rewarding throwing myself into this nocturnal way of living has proved. I don't want to sound like a luvvie, darling, but a few quests, a bit of oomph, a big heap of fear and a healthy dose of new people and new pursuits has turned me from a boring corner-dwelling party attendee to a next-to-people-"you should meet this man, he's mad"-storyteller.

I've gone from Rob, that single bloke who keeps going on about his ex- and how he'd like to do something different with his life, to Moon Man. That weirdo.

And it's Moon Man I wanted to introduce here. It's he who I've found this year. From my first trip to the Royal Observatory, to last week's secret-beach sortie, Moon Man has become me (or I have become Moon Man). Which is a bit odd - in a warm, avuncular sort of way. "Ah, you must be Moon Man." "Ladies, this is Moon Man." "So we're in the presence of Moon Man, eh!"

"Ah, no, it's Rob actually-- I mean, yes, Moon Man...Moon Man Self-Pierson. My parents thought it'd be a laugh. Like Neville Neville."

So I've become Moon Man. Or, occasionally, Moonwalker. Though I think I prefer Moon Man as it means I don't have to try and walk backwards like MJ and grab my crotch and shriek. Sometimes I do that anyway. Usually when I retreat to the corner.

Remember, Remember the Moon of November

Clogged of lung and cloudy of head, 11 days ago I hit the road and headed back to Cornwall for a moonwalk I'd planned over two years ago.

As we all now know, Moonwalking began in Cornwall. It danced around my head while I studied the Professional Writing MA in Falmouth. Wet wet Falmouth. My slightly odd nightwalking habit - walking around after dark and seeing what sort of trouble I could get into - gained a following. Such a following that it sparked huge interest from Susy, my tutor, and other course leaders.

Susy's interest was personal. I soon discovered that she and friends walked secretly once a month by the light of the full moon. We got chatting. I got excited. And I chose to dedicate 2009 to this very pursuit: the pursuit of whatever I could find under full moon. So I asked Susy if I could join her group for a walk in 2008 - a taster, a practice.

She said No.

This wasn't a mean 'no', it turned out. I just wasn't woman enough.

The Head Moon of the Falmouth moonwalkers - who visit the same beach every month and sit and contemplate the full moon as she rises from the sea and arcs overhead - seemed to dislike the idea of a man in the mix, said Susy. Plus when I'd asked, a close friend of the group had been diagnosed with cancer so not a good time for an outsider who might like to try moonwalking to join. It would be sad, reflective. It would be close and personal. I completely understood. Maybe another night. When I had experience and could add something to the ladies' meditative hobby.

And that other night was Monday. I awoke in the morning to squally showers outside; I'd never seen downpours pour quite so horizontally. The wind - oh, the wind. Gulls were being flung into cottages, walkers buffeted by gales that only Cornwall and the Highlands could survive. The moon was a distant dream.

The story of how I came to join the walk must be saved for the book. And the story of the yapping dog and moonlit poetry and men in our lives must also wait. But be prepared - November's moon is full of ups and downs. We're talking health, dreams, love, women, beauty. We're talking poetry, moon chats, Halloween, parties. There's rain, there's cold, there's warmth. There's longing.

And there's a strong feeling of coming to the end. To completing the circuit. So close: so scarily close.

Next month it's ley lines, Stonehenge, lunacy, madness and many miles of walking with a bottle of brandy. And, you never know, maybe that ex-girlfriend by my side.

Once upon a time, a young couple lived in this flat in Falmouth...

Then they didn't live in that flat. And they weren't a young couple. So one of them decided to walk around Britain following this...

 

Over a year he experienced some fantastic adventures. In November, a group of ladies and a dog led the young man to a secluded beach...

 

But he didn't find love this November full moon. Because he was dressed in a strange waterproof lumberjack outfit with very high trousers...

 

...a vest, and braces...

Soon the police came along and locked him up forever more.

My agent

I think it's probably the right time to spread the news. I have an agent. Yay! Now let me explain what I think that means.

I can retire.

Course not.

I now have a lovely lady called Susan, who works for MBA Literary Agents, working with me on my writing projects. For Moonwalking this means Susan can help me champion the idea to publishers. So rather than me writing grovelling letters to publishers on the off-chance they've got a bit of spare cash, Susan can lunch with publishers on the off-chance they've got a bit of spare cash. She earns a little pocket money if we secure a publishing deal; I gain a big smile. Then I retire.

Course not.

This is a great opportunity to see my work go further than my laptop. It's a platform. Perhaps even a springboard. Maybe a trampoline. A rocket! It's something, I know that. But I still need to put in the effort, make the calls, meet the people.

Susan contacted me through Gareth May, who I'm hoping to meet this weekend. He's a young lad who studied the same course as me. Gareth's first book, 150 Things Every Man Should Know, is released in the next couple of weeks. Which is all rather exciting for the chap. I saw Gareth's story at the end of last year (he was published in broadsheets), when Moonwalking was a mere whiff of an idea. I emailed him and six months later heard back: a lovely email offering great advice.

But before I could go any further, before I could act on the advice, Susan emailed me and said nice things. After an epic meeting in her London offices a couple of weeks ago, she offered me a contract. Last week I signed it. Once the Post Office stops striking, I hope she'll receive my confirmation and we'll live happily ever after. Then I can retire. Or push myself a little harder.

I think I know which will happen.

So, for all you wonderful people out there who read this blog and send me emails and follow me on Twitter and scream and faint when I walk past, you may soon be able to buy a little book about a young lad who experienced a bit of heartbreak and went in search of the mysteries of the moon. And learned some fascinating things.

Next step: publisher.

Sea by night

This week I'm in Cornwall. Ten days away from my moonwriting desk. All because of a beer festival on a Saturday and a moonwalk nine days later.

It's a great chance to return to my moon roots: Falmouth being the home of my first moonwalking adventure over 18 months ago. And thankfully not much has changed - though there is a new Lidl on the outskirts of town, and a Sainsbury's. But ambling along the coast at night, in the rain, remains liberating, exciting, refreshing and soaking.

Last night, few ventured out. Sea mist had taken the town. A couple of hardy souls walked dogs, but others were just too sensible to nightwalk in this sort of weather. But give me a couple of tasty local ales and a hearty steak dinner and I'm all yours, if you're rain and sea (certainly not what the doctor ordered last week when I choked my symptoms to her).

There's a problem with walking alone in bad weather at night. It's that the few other people who are out have a better reason to be out than "I like nightwalking". Usually there's a scruffy dog being dragged along, or it's a young couple trying to be romantic and nature conspiring against them. Or it's a chef rushing home after a night in his seafood restaurant. It's rarely a single man, alone.

People stare. Even if you do happen to spot another single man strolling, he'll give you a quick suspicious stare whilst plodding along. But, to be fair, I do the same. "What's that weirdo doing out at this time by himself? Up to no good, I'm sure."

There were no characters from last night to tell you about. Oh except for the men and women I imagined playing poker in the ships that undulated on the horizon. With the seas rough around them, they cursed as their chips hit the deck. But they gambled into the night - grumbling, laughing, joking, swearing. And they looked back to Falmouth, through a shared mist. Their families miles away - but their friends taking their minds off that. And taking their money in the process.