I received the galleys for my new novel The Joy of Killing yesterday. As with past books, it was an exciting yet some discomforting experience. You recognize the words on the pages, yet they seem strangely disconnected; they’re in different type than when first pronounced, and squared off on the edges. They don’t seem mine anymore, not totally. It’s like they have a different inflection.
I experienced that somewhat with non-fiction, but it’s even more intense with fiction, where the only ground for the words in front of you is inside your head. And now there’re out there for the whole world to see. I flipped through the book, but every time I stopped to read a sentence or two, my eyes quickly drifted away. It’s probably a little like the separation from a child a parent feels when the boy comes back from his first day at school.
I love the cover, the red words on white, the spooky birds flitting up and away.
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