ARCs de triomphe

We inhabit a world in which ARCs exist.

Not mine, of course; these are for Daniel Fox's Jade Man's Skin. Dan has gone all waggy puppy on me; I of course am sardonic and mature, having seen more books pass through my hands than he has cooked hot dinners. (Left to himself, I think Dan would subsist on air alone. Air and gossip, perhaps: hot air. Luckily, I never leave him to himself.)

Still'n'all. ARCs. They exist. It's a good thing. If anyone has a proper professional use for one - if you keep a review blog, or order for a bookshop, or whatever: y'know, something that might contribute to the book's reception or the idiot boy's sales down the road - let me know, and I'll have a seductive word with his editor. Who listens to me, for some bizarre reason. (Some other time, I'll tell you about the cover for Jade Man's Skin. Which is now up to version 9, I think...)

Well-bread

In defiance of centuries of tradition, I have kneaded my dough and set it to not-rise in a cold place.

I am curious to see if this works...

In other news, I have discovered the cure to existential authorial angst. While I leave my bread in hopeful stasis, I am going to take my book to the library and damn' well have fun with it.

It shall be my gift to the world: not the book, no, but the revelation. The cure. For ever hereafter, miserable head-clutching writers will be injuncted to follow the Brenchley Cure: to stop wittering and fretting, take their damn books away and have fun with them. *nods* It is guaranteed to work every time. Ah, if only I could bottle it...