KACEY VANDERKARR PUBLISHES TORCH ROCK: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

A million years ago, I remember reading this author's comment that she had a few books languishing on her computer.

   That's the way of things for all scribblers and tale-tellers.

   These stories rust very slowly on the floor of the old Fiction Factory, unfinished for want of a part. Occasionally, that part is Time.

   And so, Reflection Pond stopped being a book on its lonesome and transformed into the trilogy once Poison Tree and Torch Rock hit the shelves.

   Click on the book covers to head on over to the mighty Amazon.

PUBLISHING PLANS: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

News affected my publishing plans. My response?
   Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fucketty-fuck.

*

That's what happens when you collaborate with people. People change plans. Plans change people. I think, halfway through writing a book, that I can still salvage the work. Only time and typing tells.

*

In the meantime, let's have a blog post about someone else's publishing plans...

FUNERAL FOR BOOKS: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

No, reading isn't dead.
   But some books are. My recent acquisition of a fuck-tonne of books provided a few gems. And dead books. When you inherit someone else's library, in whole or in part, there are always going to be curiosities.
   And those are welcome.
   There'll be duplicates. Koff koff, splutter. Occasionally, the duplicate copy is better than your own. Koff koff. That treasured version you had...well, it's now treasured in the charity shop.
   I brought one bookcase out of retirement and bought another. Much shuffling of tomes occurred. I wasn't killed in an avalanche of books. But it was close.

*

What are you left with? Decisions, of course.
   Books I've read. Duplicates go to charity.
   Gems I'll definitely read for research relating to books of my own.
   Books I'll read for fun.
   The books I won't read - those go to charity. Naming no authors. But I'm looking at you, XXXXXXXX. And you, THAT SCRIBBLER. (So memorable, I've forgotten his name. Him.)
   Then there are books that are far more specialised. So specialised, it's true, that they are...
   What's the term...
   Obsolete. Of no use to anyone, except paper recyclers. And so, I held a funeral for books. I don't like to throw books out.
   No. I don't. Instead, I give books to people who would like those books. Or I trek to the charity shop. Rarely, do I bin books. This was a solemn windy and rainy occasion.
   I'd landed a catch of books on all sorts of subjects. Every single book on computers was obsolete. Those could only be recycled. True, I could set a story in the murky past...and write with authority on computing as it used to be.
   But no. I windproofed the recycling bin by dumping a layer of obscure hardbacks at the bottom. No breeze will shift those. Job done, for now.
   As I work my way through the stacks, deciding what stays, what goes, and what heads for the bin, there'll be more ceremonies for books beyond saving.
   It doesn't do to fill the bin to the brim in one go.
   This is the largest cull of books I've ever dealt with. No. I really don't like to throw books into the bin. It's not the done thing. Not if you are a writer. By definition, that makes you a reader.