Tuesday, March 02, 2004
So that’s it. Around 10:15 this morning a car pulled up outside the house and a guy with a clipboard and a smallish box got out and walked up to the door.
We all knew what was inside, and I quickly signed for it and plonked the box on the table inside. Pausing only to wait for folks to get their cameras (it was good to have people there to witness the event), I opened the box and there inside their layer of bubblewrap were ten copies of my book.
After three years of work there it was – The Accidental Pilgrim by David Moore. An object, a book, my book. Not just a set of BBEdit files, or a honking Word document, or an Acrobat file, or a printout from QuarkXpress.
I’m staring at three copies here at work now, and I can’t quite believe it. I know all about books, and I know all about the words I wrote in all those files. But it seems mad that the words have turned into a book. You know, like real writers write?
A thing that should be in your shops very soon if you’re in Ireland. And it’s entirely possible that if you’re in a bookshop over the next while you’ll see me there, looking at it and shaking my head gently.