Well, this is embarrassing. What on earth happened to all those posts between mid-September and now, you ask? Huh? Oh, that's right, I didn't write them. My excuse? None, really, other than the fact I've been very busy (so, nothing new there) and I went and published another book.
Ah... what's that? Yeah, I said a book. You forgive me? Good. Let's go get muffins. Huh? You hate muffins? Yeah, so do I. Whatevs, we'll improvise.
Back to the book. I was so caught up in the esoteric, arcane world of formatting for epublishing and uploading to scarily-named nuclear meatgrinders that I damn well forgot to mention anything on the blog I set up to showcase such announcements in the first place. Can you spell "imbecile"? Yeah, of course you can, it was a rhetorical question.
A couple of things: the book is called Endless Joke. The more astute of you will notice its visual and titular resemblance to a certain famous tome by David Foster Wallace. And for the less astute, ahem, pay attention to the title of this post. Okay, I'm actually surprised no one has taken me to task on the almost inconceivable hubris it must have taken for me to place my snarky book of essays on a continuum that begins with Shakespeare and includes the complex and challenging Infinite Jest. In my defence, I did it in a spirit of bathos, in an attack of self-deprecation on a par with the scene in Trainspotting where Renton can no longer contain within his carefully constructed walls of denial and insouciance the truth of what it is to be Scottish. So, as everyone in the UK would put it, I'm taking the piss. Out of myself more than anyone, it must be said. Now, don't get me wrong: although I harbour a reluctant appreciation for arrogance, I'm personally not all that predisposed to it. I mean, here's the rub: I'm good but I'm nowhere near that fucking good.
Anyway, it took me four years to read Infinite Jest. Yes, I said "years". Just saying. It's possibly one of the most aptly named books ever written. Not that it isn't brilliant. In some ways, it's too brilliant, leaves everyone in its awkward, golden wake.
Endless Joke, however, is far from endless; in fact, it's quite short. Twenty nine quick chapters dug from the seams of Indies Unlimited and this very blog, a paean to and a diatribe against the current book-industry climate in which random vowels seem to get arbitrarily attached to existing words (when this extends to proper names, do I go with iDavid or eDavid?) and all of us have had to learn not only how to be writers, but how to be publishers, editors, designers, typesetters, formatters, advertisers and publicists. With that in mind, it's a hybrid of writer's manual and (pop) cultural commentary, medium-heavy on the snark but also informative, sweet and gleaming with a lifetime's love of the language.
Okay, I've rambled enough for now. I'll talk some more about it later, maybe. For now, give it a go, see what you think, and please don't hesitate to give me feedback. I love feedback. I crave it. I need it. Like zombies need brains. Like ageing mitochondria need serious protection from marauding free radicals. Huh? Never mind, shut up.