Being Jealous of Wooding

It's been almost a month! Argh!

Though luckily few things have happened. Chapters 24-26 are ready to be polished. Much was changed but what is now there feels streamlined and tight. Roll on 27-30!

Steve from RevolutionSF responded to a prod I gave him (they've had No Longer Living for five months now). He said that he remembered my story (hurray!) but thought that he had already replied (oh) but may have passed it onto Matt (hurray?). That was last week and I haven't heard back since. So, hopefully, that means their taking it seriously.

The same goes for Joe at Something Wicked, who have had Of The Father for seven months now. He assures me it is top of the pile, so I should hear from them soon too. Exciting!

At the moment, I am being relatively jealous of author Chris Wooding. First novel written at 16, agent by 18, published at 19. The jealousy that courses through me right now, you could bottle it. And I'm looking forward to his new book Retribution Falls. Grrrrr. I hate writers that I can't help but like.

Well, actually I don't. Good for him. I'm just jealous of his success. I'd like me some of that.

Here's hoping!

Thanks for reading.

Books, the elusiveness of

I'm knackered.

I have this thing where if a new book comes out from an author I love I have to have it now. Not tomorrow, not in the afternoon, now. And so today I spent my lunchtime running to bookshops trying to grab a copy of Mike Carey's new book and failing to find it.

In one shop there was an author, a greying, grinning, wince-worthy glimpse into the future. With a smile on his face he was handing a copy of his book to every person who came in. "I'm the author," he'd say, "and I'm signing copies." This was on a Thursday lunchtime so I was left thinking a) most people are on their lunchbreak and probably know exactly why they were there, b) were in a hurry and c) might not be into the type of book he'd written.

This resulted in many people smiling politely, reading (pretending to read?) the blurb and then, as soon as his back was turned putting the book down and running hell-for-leather out of the shop. I was a tad more respectful, I put the book back on the shelf with the other copies.

There's fewer things more desperate than a new author, me thinks. Were it me I'd sit behind my signing table looking forlorn. I'd carry my lack of popularity with dignity, less sweaty enthusiasm. I suppose it's tough but well, he's doing better than me, I guess, but I wouldn't do that. Let me be the only one having a bad day, I'm not going to drag poor work-a-day civilians into my pariahdom.

Anyway.

Writing is going. And I still have lots of books to read anyway.

Thanks for reading.