My book is released on Tuesday (1st July) although several friends have been shouting excitedly at me that they've already received their copy. It's all a bit mad. The launch party is next Wednesday (2nd July at Brighton Waterstones from 7.30pm - come along if you're in the area, there will be free booze and nervous reading!) and I'm being interviewed on BBC Sussex radio on the Tuesday (around 4.20 pm) to talk about booky-type things. To say I'm anxious/ecstatic/fluff-brained would be an understatement. This beautiful monster of mine has taken me 6 years and now it's in print - and although selling hundreds of thousands of copies would be frankly marvellous, simply holding my book in my hands as a real, live thing (you have to put your ear really close to hear it breathing) is all I've ever wanted.
So... all is well.
If you've bought, borrowed or stolen a copy, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave me a review somewhere - Amazon, Goodreads, Twitter, on a slip of paper sellotaped to a bus stop, whatever. Ever picked up a book (or clicked one into your virtual basket) because of a really enticing review? It really helps get the word out and encourages more people to take a look, so I would be eternally grateful for your reviews and thoughts - even if you hated it - because readers' opinions are so important to an author's success. (Holy shit I'm an author now...)
This whole marketing spiel wasn't meant to be the point of this post. I actually planned on coming here to post up one of my favourite Dylan Thomas poems. His collection has been sitting neglected on my bookshelf for a long time but I flicked through it today, remembered Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night, and realised that it is the perfect introduction to both central characters in White Lies. I'll just leave it here, and hope it inspires you to read a) more Dylan Thomas, 'cause I love him, and b) my book, to find out how this poem relates to Peter and Matt...
Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night
By Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.