Why am I doing this? Why?
That’s not the self pity I’ve been verging on all week. It’s Friday, I have booze, there are swifts . . . and I’m still not sure exactly why this seemed like such an all-fire good idea in the bath on Monday night.
It’s partly because I want to do whatever I can to support Smashwords. (Here’s an interview that might help to explain why: I just think there’s something laudable in their whole approach.)
But realistically, my slim weight isn’t going to make an ounce of difference to Smashwords’s success or failure – and in fact they seem to be pretty much set fair to carry on already.
It’s got more, I think, to do with feeling rather guilty.
You see, the thing is, I do what so many people do – I pick up a book because I’ve read something else by the author, or because I’ve heard an extract on the radio, or it’s been recommended by a friend. Or I don’t try anything even that adventurous, but just pick up an old friend from the shelf. And then I don’t get round to reviewing it. Half the time I don’t even remember to put it up on Goodreads. Given that I spend £2 every week on a Saturday newspaper and throw half of it away without a glance, and given that I know how nice* it is to get a positive review, that’s pretty shocking, really. Even without a sale on there’s a lot of good stuff out there that’s cheaper than my Saturday paper, and I hardly ever give it a chance.
So I’ve cornered myself. 31 days. 31 recommendations. And in case you thought that I’d weaselled out of it today, that I was going to say that I only promised you an average of one a day . . .
I’ve only read a few pages of this, obviously – you’re not going to be getting more than first impressions for most of this month, but it must be a good sign that I just broke off to read more than I meant to of The Phoenix Affair, an engaging spy thriller by former USAF Colonel Paul Clark.
*I had an English teacher who objected violently to the use of ‘nice’ in place of some more descriptive word, and I think that this is one of those times, but . . . tough. It‘s late, I have, as I may have mentioned, booze at my elbow, and that will have to wait for another blog.