Entry tags:
moi, moi, mais rien que moi
Sometimes these things require a while to gestate . . .
Trusty Google Alerts this morning, er, alerted me to the fact that a very long interview with me has just been published on the Conversations with Writers website. Natch, I hurried to have a look, my interest piqued not least by the fact that no one's done an interview with me for at least a few months.
Curiosity deepened as I read. While I recognized my own phrasing, my own opinions, my own bugbears, my own general dimwittery, I had no recollection whatsoever of having given this particular interview. It's actually a pretty good interview, so an ol' egoboo/publicity whore like me had no complaints whatsoever about its publication, you bet.
Neurologically speaking, though, I was becoming a little concerned.
And then I cottoned on. Internal evidence reveals that the conversation (almost certainly an e-conversation) was conducted in the first part of 2002 -- i.e., approaching eight years ago. Why it should have taken so long for the piece to reach publication is a mystery to me, but there ya go. Bearing in mind that a lot of cliches have flowed under the bridge since then, it's kind of unsurprising I've forgotten this effort.
Whatever: If you'd like to know a few of the things I was cheering or whingeing about eight years ago, many of which cheers and whinges I today entirely disown as the self-indulgent ravings of a madman, the interview can, once again, be accessed simply by clicking these words.
no subject
Just between you and me, I agree with you regarding most small presses and their lack of good editing. I appreciate the small press, but sometimes I'm appalled by the grammatical gaffs I've read in some of the small press publications. This said, I will still look the other way if the story is good, and the mistakes not egregious.
Good article about you, Paul. I'm glad you posted it.
no subject
Many thanks for the kind words, unmerited though they might be.
I did read one small-press novel where the appalling grammar, the spelling errors and the typos in a curious way added to the effect of the text: it was a sort of road-movie/serial killer novel (I simplify hugely), and none of the characters were educational marvels. The chaotic nature of the text somehow conjured up the ambiance of their chaotic existences.
I reviewed the book somewhere, and the author (who proved to be a very nice guy) got in touch to assure me that this effect had been in no way deliberate on his part. Some of the errors were his; many more had been contributed by his "editor".