Finch - Jeff VanderMeer

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

In that photo you see the (abridged) evolution of Finch. The MS printed out on both sides, followed by the proof, followed by the release, followed by the super-saiyan-insane-bling Heretic Limited Edition. If only all books achieved such a state of being, because the camera does not do Heretic justice. It's so shiny and glittery and a block of literal and literary gold.

I almost feel like I can't and shouldn't write my thoughts on the book, seeing as I was privileged with punching it in the nuts a few times when it wasn't properly hatched. When you've approached a book from a critical approach, your relationship with it is different than if you'd picked it up to read for pleasure. You force yourself to hunt out any tick or smudge that could be polished up to make it bigger, brighter, better, you're unwilling and unable to forgive anything. At least, that's how I am with stories I've critiqued.

I picked up the market release (I do not let Heretic out of its bag) and read it out of curiosity, to see how the butterfly had emerged from the cocoon. It remains a fucked up cocoon and a fucked up butterfly. Barely a year since I read the MS, no surprises left for me, and it didn't matter. I ate it in a day. Again.

It's garnered all sorts of praise and accolades since being released into the wild, and it deserves it.

(Yay Rathven! Oh Whyte!)

Verdict: It's Jeff Fucking VanderMeer. I do not froth about the brain over his writing without exceptionally good reason.

Going Postal

Two boxes landed today; one expected, one not.

The delightful explorer Madame Bishop sent me an 'oddity', a mini-version of a festival mask for Phi Ta Khon. It's quite a fearsome mask. Bit of rabbit, bit of hawk, bit of shark, a lot of unsettling. In the card, Madame Bishop notes that the shop had these displayed on Ken and Barbie dolls. Heh. I have no Barbies, but I do have the Masterchief, who has kindly volunteered to model.



I think he looks quite fetching.

There was also a bottle opener decorated with what look like Chinese opera masks. It is just as alarming to look at. I may never get to open a bottle of fun with it, because the opener will look at me every time I go to use it.

Second box contained an uncorrected proof of Jeff VanderMeer's Finch, which I had the honour of reading as manuscript and telling him everything he was doing wrong. I read it in one day. It's a powerful book, that. Powerful enough to keep 46 degrees of summer out of my head, which is no small feat. Brilliantly written and very juicy. There's a lot to love.

There was also a wrapped thingy, with a card taped to it. On the back of the envelope was a request to document my reaction. At which point I put everything down, didn't even open the card and went off to do all my chores. Sounded far too distracting.

Now I'm opening it...

Oh holy hell!

AHAHAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!!

LOOK AT THIS
LOOK
AT
THIS

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!

Waitwaitwaitwaitwait. Ages ago. Like, ages ago. I flippantly requested a capybara for my birthday. I wasn't really expecting a capybara, because Australia has strict quarantine laws, and I have nowhere for a capybara to live. But when requesting presents you're never going to receive, you might as well do it properly.

Apparently this infected Jeff, 'cause he had a capybara dream, started RPing a capybara on a certain-social-networking-site-that-looks-like-a-cubicle-farm, and the internet coughed up a capybara to talk to him, who he then went on to interview. (ZOMFG, teh kewt.)

But, I did not receive a capybara for my birthday.

Got the next best thing though!



And this is my head asploding with the combined pressure of Oarsum Unsettling and Mighty Cute.



RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGH!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you, Madame Bishop! Thank you, VanderMeer Inc! Thank you, Caplin Rous!