James Twining has posted about the up and downieness of belonging to this crazy business we call writing. He says he's inclined to focus on the bad stuff, rather than the good. As you know, I've been suffering from a bout of glass-half-emptiness myself of late, but as Mr Twining (no relation to the people that make the tea -- well he might be, I don't know. Looks more like a coffee person to me.) says we have to focus on the good stuff every now and then, otherwise it's all just one big bleak hole of poop, into which people throw more poop, until there's nothing left but poop. Though obviously I'm paraphrasing on the poop part.
So in the interests of counting one's blessings before they hatch into rabid dinosaurs and chew one's toes off, I'm pleased to announce a nice review for DOOD KALM in the Dutch paper de Volksrant that Uniboek (my Dutch publishers) sent over to cheer me up, after my research, notebook, French train-related disaster.
"Rough and raw, language that could cut you, but also humour in all shades of black available."Which is nice. And:"Stuart MacBride's thrillers ... most of all they present a merciless image of mankind under pressure or in danger, as we flay about, trust and betray, and most of the time try to save ourselves and sometimes. others."Which makes me sound all intellectual. Hahaha, fooled them! Fooled them all!!! *ahem*
It's especially nice to get a great big, positive review like this, because we were worried that DOOD KALM might be a bit too satirical for the Dutch marketplace. Apparently in Holland they like their crime fiction in one of three shades: dark, darker, and darkest. Or 'more darkerer' if you're going to be grammatically picky about it.
Certainly the two short stories I sold over there last year (thanks to some nifty footwork by Sander at Unieboek on my behalf) were bleaktastic. Certainly some of the nastiest things I've written so far. Or at least they were until I started in on Book Number The Fouth, which has turned into a sort of portrait in black. With optional big bleak black bits.
Try saying that after two bottles of fizzy wine and a packet of Ferrero Roche.
Speaking of which, today is the anniversary of the first time She Who Must Be The Luckiest Girl In The World and I shared our first kiss. Or at least the first one that wasn't scripted, on stage, and performed for an audience of jealous septuagenarian thespians.
Oh, and I'm also getting some free bookshelves! See: there's a bright side to everything.
Labels: Dying Light, Flesh House, ramble, writing