In a fit of masochism I went off Googling* for reviews of BROKEN SKIN and much to my surprise none of the ones I found call me a degenerate pervert who should be treated in much the same way as Barry Scott.
According to the inestimably loveable Russell James at the SHOTS Mag website:
The delightful Karen Chisholm at Aust Crime Fiction:
And on Gateway it's a Star Title:
Ah, you is all lovely people!
Of course, this no holds barred, lubricated love-fest isn't likely to last very long, but I'm going to enjoy it while it does. And then stick my fingers in my ears and go "Lalalalalala!"
I may be demented and delusional, but I'm honest about it.
And why am I posting this blatant slice of self-promotional ego polishing? Because it's May the first, which is technically my deadline for delivering Book Number The Fourth. And as that's got as much chance of happening as say... my urinating on Kate Moss if she was on fire, I suppose you could say that this was a shallow attempt to appease the angry gods of HarperCollins, so that they might not smite me with their mighty spoon-wielding editorial Berber ninjas.
Worth a try, isn't it?
* Technically one is supposed to say 'I used the Google search engine' so as not to erode the Google brand name, but to hell with that for a game off monkeys. I was using Google, therefore I did Google. I am a Googler, though not too often as, obviously, it makes you go blind.
Labels: Broken Skin