Living for the Revel (catvalente) wrote,
Living for the Revel
catvalente

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You Can't Be Sad Today...It's Rex Manning Day!

I'm being remaindered! Sweet!

All aboard the Failboat! Publishing: Ur doin it wrong! Numphar, do the dance of shame!

I know it seems funny to be delighted with that, but in a way I am. It's a rite of passage, a mark of battle.

No one ever gave a crap about The Grass-Cutting Sword, anyway. It was a book plagued by delays, cover issues, and the fact that it was published as I was transitioning to Bantam, and thus the book was, predictably, stomped upon by The Orphan's Tales. It was virtually unreviewed, unread, and unnoticed. I'm fairly comfortable with that, even though I think it's a good book, one of my favorites that I've written, certainly better than the above would indicate. It makes me a little sad, but I did my best. I wrote the best book I could. I wouldn't write it any differently now. It just...didn't go anywhere.

But hey, books are like kids. Sometimes they pull themselves up by their bootstraps and get into Harvard, sometimes they drink absinthe all day and go to art school, sometimes they smell like crayons and sniff rubber-cement and permanent solution on their breaks at Mathilda's House of Secondhand Fruit. It happens. You gotta let them go their own way. You still love them and feed them when they come back to your house in a giant box, but railing to the heavens on account of their fate is sort of silly.

Is it weird to feel like I've taken another skill level in "real writer" because I've been remaindered? It's like that cool eye-scar your uncle got when he was in the shit setting off fireworks with a can of Natty Lite in both hands. Yeah, bitches, I been there. I been in the shit. I remember landing under sniper fire...and when my books burned, oh, the fire was like the hand of god...a small, pulpy, accountant-god...

The Defense Department wishes to inform you that your books are dead because they were stupid. *takes a minute to stop laughing at her own lame quotejoke*

So yeah, three and a half years after the start of my professional publishing life, my third novel has finally shuffled off its glue-addled coil. I feel absurdly like getting a bottle of the CHEAPEST POSSIBLE champagne tonight. I'll have a big frigging box of these books at Penguicon, I tell you what. My shipment of fail has quite literally arrived. But very shortly, I'll be the only place you can get them. (My fail, let me show you it. Ok, I'm stopping now.) If you want them, which, historically, you don't. And I'm fine with that. I made my offering to Susano-no-Mikoto. Not my fault if he blew his nose with it--in fact, he probably thought that was the best way to honor it. Represent, Susie. Represent.

Well tried, little book. You get a forty-failed-author-moan salute.
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