Oh Christ, I’ve been spoiled with reviews.
I honestly thought nobody would give a fuck. And that’s genuine honesty, not me pretending I expect nothing, but actually being pissed off when I don’t make the Booker Prize shortlist.
Anyway, people were receptive. And what more could I ask? I mean, who the hell am I? Some fucking upstart who decided to write a bunch of stories. There are people who have been doing this for years. Established people. Jack Binding is not one of them.
First up – Harriet. I wouldn’t have released a thing if it wasn’t for wonderful Harriet. When I first embarked on all this literary nonsense, I searched around for an editor. Someone who would give me feedback – constructive, useful feedback. It was pretty hard to even get people to reply to emails first of all. You’d think when a person touts themselves as an ‘Editor’, they’d be receptive to the offer of … well, editing. Especially if it came with the added incentive of hard cash. But no. And those who did reply were useless. When you’re finding grammatical mistakes in an editor’s covering email, you know you’ve picked the wrong person. But Harriet shone out. She saw there was potential and, most importantly, understood what I was trying to do. That gave me the confidence to persevere, and for that, I’ll be ever in her debt. But to top it all off, she interviewed me and said some lovely things.
Michael W. Griffith said some damn nice things. Damn nice.
Pearl Kirby also wrote some lovely words.
And so did Alen B Curtiss.
There were a bunch of other reviews – Amazon, Goodreads etc. It was kind of overwhelming.
But reviews are pretty important when one is starting out (and not so important if you’re Dan Brown). How the hell else are you going to get a stranger to part with their hard-earned 99p?
Hey, maybe I’ll even return the favour …
*Edit: This also includes Twenty-Seven, or any other new releases I have out. Smiley face.