Yup, it's all aboard the panic train, leaving Aberdeen at 19:00 Wednesday the 30th of April. Please make sure you have all your personal possessions with you before boarding, and that you have clean underwear on.
"Achhhh," I hear you say, in that slightly off-kilter Groundskeeper Willie accent you've been practising for the last three months (and to be honest, it still needs work), "but what have yeh tae worry aboot, yeh beard-wearing, shower-taking, soap-using, Jessie?"
Well, I'll tell you: that's when copies of the book formerly known as BOOK NUMBER THE FOURTH will be available in at least one lexiconographical emporium of booky goodness. AKA the Aberdeen Union Bridge branch of Waterstones. Now officially the publication date is the 6th of May, but the launch party thing is happening on the 30th, and it seems kinda daft not to have any copies of, you know, the actual book there.
And anyway, it's not like anyone pays the slightest bit of attention to publication dates, is it? Take DYING LIGHT, I received an email from a nice police officer* pointing out something I'd got wrong four days before the damn thing was published - he'd picked it up in Costco and read it over the weekend.
But that's not why the Brown Trouser Express is pulling into the station. The reason the train conductor of doom is calling "Mind the gap!" has more to do with the fact that people will finally be able to read the thing.
You see, a book is a bit like the cat in that sadistic bastard Schrödinger's experiment - until it's actually out in public the thing can exist simultaneously in two states: good, or crap. It's status is determined by the act of observation, only you don't get the RSPCA breaking down your door and beating the crap out of you for poisoning cats.
So far I've only seen one review online for FLESH HOUSE (it contains spoilerettes, so I'm not going to link to it), even though advance reading copies have been doing the rounds for a couple of months now. Mind you, the lady in question does say, 'FLESH HOUSE managed to sink its claws deep into my subconscious...' but whether that's a good or bad thing is a matter of interpretation. It did the same to one of my test readers and gave her nightmares to the point where she couldn't finish it.
Worry, worry, worry...
Mind you, I'm pretty sure most writers are the same. Now is the time to open the box and find out if the cat's still alive.
* We're not supposed to call them Policemen and Policewomen any more, because it makes them feel all dirty and sexual.
Labels: events, Flesh House, Trauma, Whinge, writing