Home again, home again, jiggety-jig. Gooooood evening, JF.
Alright, holidays are over and we’re all back at work being miserable bastards, wishing we’d spent those two weeks off on something meaningful like learning Cantonese instead of playing Arkham Horror and Netrunner and eating shit-tonnes of dead cow. I blame the media, personally. And who/whatever decided dead cow would taste so delicious.
So a cool thing happened just before the break (a couple of cool things happened actually, but most of them involve STORMDANCER getting onto various Important End of Year Lists™ and nobody cares about that except me and possibly my mother) which I’d like to tell you about.
See, there’s this dude called Wil Wheaton. If you haven’t heard of him… I’m not sure what I can do for you. To give you an idea of scale, his cat’s twitter feed has more followers than mine does. In fact, if I can be brutally, Real Talk honest with you, one of my driving goals in life is to have more followers than Wil Wheaton’s fucking housepets.
(While I’m being all R Kelly with you all, I should take a moment to share my deep-seeded suspicions that it’s not actually Wheaton’s cat running that Twitter feed. He’s a pretty cool guy, granted, but no way is his cat smarter than my dog, and my dog has as much chance of conducting a coherent conversation on Twitter as my penis does… now there’s a thought... )
Anyway, Ser Wheaton runs this blog that I’ve been reading since before cats learned to operate keyboards, and I figured since I’d been reading Wil’s stuff for free, I should return the favor. I shot him a mail and offered to send him a copy of STORMDANCER in thanks for the hours of geekery/poker/tv/film I’ve seen him in. And in a display of 100% badassery, Ser Wheaton instead read the jacket copy, immediately bought a copy of my book for his Kindle, and suggested I donate the physical copy I was going to send to him to a local library instead.
Yes. Ser Wheaton’s awesome amplifiers go up to 11.
So today. I finally got into Melbourne City Library, copy of SD in hand, with this little plaque thing on the inside cover.
I also scribbled my name in the front, but again, nobody cares about that except me and possibly my mum.
I tried to explain to the woman behind the counter that I was the author of the novel in my hand but it was Wil Wheaton who was actually donating it. Sadly, her english wasn’t awesome and I suspect she thought I was trying to pass myself off as Wil himself, which is just crazy talk because I’m way taller than him and potentially better looking in dim nightclub lighting even if his fucking cat does have 6,000 followers, I mean JESUS IT’S A CAT, PEOPLE.
But anyway, this is the building where that book lives now. Feel free to steal it (the book, not the building, although stealing the building would be redlining the badass-o-meter).
Happy New Year and all that jazz, peoples. Hope your holidays were spiffing, pip-pip, what ho old bean.