Thursday, July 24, 2003
Here it is Thursday, and I haven't written since Saturday, when I finished "The Dead and the Moonstruck." And I still haven't seen the frelling Publisher's Weekly review of Low Red Moon. Never mind that all of New York had the July 21st issue on Monday morning. Here in Atlanta, it has yet to arrive. We are now theorizing that all shipments of the magazine from Manhatten have been waylaid by alien spacecraft intent on driving me insane. That's a fairly reasonable conspiracy theory. Yesterday, there were some fairly elaborate attempts to get the review to me from NYC, all the no avail. It's beginning to feel a little weird. It's just one frelling paragraph, probably half a column, and it's had me locked up since frelling Monday morning.
If you are reading this and have in your possession such a thing as a copy of the July 21st Publisher's Weekly, if you will be so extraordinarily kind as to type the text into an e-mail and send it to me at Desvernine@aol.com, I will be grateful and . . . hold on. A call from Bill Schafer. The review is in my e-mail at AOL. I go now and read. I will return . . .
(Intermission)
Isn't it just drad, getting to watch my pathetic little life played out right here before your very eyes?
So, anyway, approximately 72 hours after being told by my editor that the review was in print, after countless calls to bookstores (Atlanta, Athens, even frelling Birmingham), two lost faxes, various dubious sedatives, and half a nervous breakdown, I've read the damned review. It would appear that the reviewer, whoever this person might be, likes Low Red Moon, though they do proclaim it more conventional than Threshold and complain that there's too much action and dialogue. I especially love that last bit, since one of the most common, most annoying criticisms of my work has been that there is too little action and dialogue. Sometimes I feel like all I'm doing is moving holes around, at the whim of people who don't even like holes to start with. But it's a good review, give or take, which is all that ever matters. A bezillion thanks to the merciful Bill Sheehan for taking the time to type this thing up for me. May the gods never rain marmite and snails upon your head.
Christ, what a mess of a week.
So, you want to be a writer, hmmmm?
In other news (and thankfully there is other news), my copies of Waycross arrived bright and early this morning. The UPS guy, who knows we sleep in mornings, was apologetic, though we were actually up already. Anyway, the book looks great. Ted Naifeh's illustrations are absolutely killer. Thank you again, Ted. Also, look for the new issue of Ted's comic, How Loathsome, which arrived in most comic shops yesterday. According to Subterranean Press, Waycross is now out of print, except for a few copies of the hardback lettered edition. But I'll be offering copies of the paperback numbered edition on eBay, as soon as we can get around to putting them up. For those who don't know already, Waycross is a Dancy Flammarion story set just prior to In the Garden of Poisonous Flowers.
Yesterday, because I could not write, Spooky and I went to see The Eye. What did I think? Mother and I are still collating.
Ah, and this from Jim Shimkus, who makes me wear clothes and knows why I lost my wings: "If red is the new brown, which was the new black, then half-dragons are the new drow, which were the new half-elves."
Maybe I'll be able to get my head together and get back to Chapter Six today. But it may be tomorrow. I'm going to throw up now; excuse me.
|
|
