It’s been a day of endings and, finally, a little rest. Today I FedEx’d the page proofs to 36 Yalta Boulevard, which ended up needing more tinkering than I expected when they arrived. But the effort was well worth it, because I’m quite pleased with the result—in a way I don’t think I was at the completion of the previous two books.
In addition, I sent in the complete fourth book, for the moment called (though we all know these things change) Liberation Movements. It’s quite a departure from the style and pace of the other books, which evokes two feelings: a sense of pleasure at seeing myself branch out, and fear. I’m just waiting for my publisher to send back a brief note, saying, “Eh? What’s this? Send us the real book, okay?”
And in a way, I find myself, or at least a malicious part of me, asking the same question. It’s what happens once you’ve put out a few books, and while there’s no wide public for my books, the ones who like them are coming to know what to expect in one way or another. A single (often brooding) main character, with the narrative sticking unerringly to his point of view, and a slow movement into chaos. The chaos remains in this, and is in fact racheted up quite a bit, but there are three main characters, each of whom speak differently, creating a whole tale often by indirection, so that only the reader can piece the whole thing together.
Writing it here, though, I remember that it actually works pretty well. So what am I worried about?
(Originally posted at the Contemporary Nomad)