The paperbacks of Shock and Awe have arrived on my doorstep.
Nice. Shiny. And with a kind blurb from thriller master James Barrington (for which I am grateful).
You can't see it in the pics here, but the glossy gold title on the front is embossed. I spent the morning running my fingertips across the raised letters as if there might be messages in Braille lurking there.
It's a childhood fixation, I admit. But real writers to me were people who wrote books you could go out and buy--and in the benighted part of California where I grew up, there weren't any stores where you could wander in and buy hardback novels. (Not that I could have afforded any.)
And there they are: Paperbacks.
I suppose a lot of what I do is to please the ten-year-old lurking inside me. (Sad, but true.) Now if they'd just put me on a rack in a supermarket, I'd really have arrived.