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Publication day, on the other side of the world: time for a new beginning, then.

First things first. The new book is called 'Bridge of Dreams', it's by me - Chaz Brenchley - and it's published by Ace in the States. Today. And you can call this shameless self-promotion if you choose, because I Don't Care; it's the first new book I've had out in too long, and my mood is celebratory (not an option, apparently, in LJ - tho' 'exanimate' is. I had to look that up). Besides, it feels strange to have a book that's only published overseas, and I can't talk about that stuff if I haven't told you about it. Besides besides, I am throat-deep in the sequel and in danger of drowning, and I will definitely be talking about that, so again you do need to know about its precursor.

And I'm going to stop excusing myself now; this is a journal of the writing life, and shameless self-promotion is a full-blown feature thereof, these vulgar days. The ivory towers have all been cast down, and you just can't get the elephants.

This is, was originally meant to be a journal strictly of the writing life; but that was long ago, uncounted years, when it started as a blog on my own site here. Where I will keep it up, for a while at least, cross-posting between here and there; point being there's an awful lot of archived stuff there if anyone's interested, but there are obvious attractions to migrating over here. People talk back, for one thing. I like that.

So: it was meant to be a journal of the writing life, back when there weren't so many of those around; but the point is, you can't actually distinguish between the writing life and the lived life, the one feeds into the other and so back again. So I found myself talking about the sad stuff and the scary stuff and so forth, and I won't be avoiding those here; and putting in more recipes than I'd expected, because I do cook seriously, and you can expect those too; and then there's the cat. There used to be two, frail elderly girl-cats, but they died. Now there is an extremely robust boy-cat, and his name is Barry because the nice people who rescued him found him on Barry Street, and I thought that would be easy to change but actually not, it has kind of stuck. At the moment it's short for Barabbas, the thief who got away with it. Barry gets away with most things. You'll learn. (A friend showed me a website a while back, how to test the intelligence of your cat; and the first question was, 'How many commands does your cat understand?' Commands? Cat? C'mon...)


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June 2017

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