Man, what with all these great reviews recently, you can imagine I was starting to feel pretty ground down. Does no-one out there hate my stuff any more? Is there no-one who’ll give a brother a kick when he’s up? It can be tough getting out of bed when you know there’ll be no knives out for you in the senate-house, believe me. So imagine my delight when my weekly (alright, daily) blog-search (alright, hourly) unearthed this little beauty at Bobby’s triple zero’s book thoughts:
“Every review I’ve read focuses on how Abercrombie did well by not overly describing the setting and instead focusing on creating vivid characters. This is actually where I disagree the most. To me the characters were cliche. Yes, I said it. Cliche. Let the hate mail commence.”
Oh yeah, sweet smarmy. Yes, I said it. Smarmy. Tastes like strawberry jam. I doubt anyone cares enough to actually mail him anything, even me, but one should be careful what one wishes for…
“Predictable. Cliche. Semi-boring. In essence, this is Joe Abercrombie’s The Blade Itself. But despite all that I said, it does have potential. After all this is only the first in the series. Maybe the characters will grow in different ways than I predict in the next two. I sincerely hope that Abercrombie proves me wrong.”
Hmmm. If I was feeling in a sarcastic frame of mind, I might say something like: “Predictable. Cliche. Semi-boring. In essence, this is Bobby’s blog.” But everyone knows that I am just so well not sarcastic. And I’m not at all a tiny-minded, bitter little man with an old, dried-up white turd where my heart should be. Well, alright, I am. But I can be charitable on occasion. After all, this is only Bobby’s fourth post. Maybe his blog will grow in different ways than I predict in the next two.
In other news, the evil Gollancz hype machine, running as it does on the skulls of stolen orphan children and lubricated by the blood of harmless virgins by that undead arch-hype-sorcerer Simon of Spanton, manifestation of corporate strangulation of all that is good and righteous upon the unsullied, unicorn-infested, emerald fields of the fantasy genre (takes deep breath) has been running overtime again in its efforts to trick the innocent readers of the world into buying Richard Morgan’s The Steel Remains. Which I rather liked. At least before all that evil hype got started. Now I am forced to question my own response. Could it be that I TOO was hypnotised by that fiendish puppet-master of the lowest nether pit of publishing?
Well, what I want to know is, if the macabre Gollancz hype-engine is so fricking effective, how the hell did this bad review of my book happen, eh? Eh, Spanton?