This is a heartfelt plea: publishers, *please* send me and @silviamg your 2021 books or we can't mention them in our book column for the Washington Post.
This has been so befuddling. Other than some generic frontlist PR e-mail from time to time we simply don't get anything.
And even when I specifically ask for titles, I'm told either (from the US) "We don't ship internationally"(!) or (from the UK), "We don't send out books for an American publication"(!).
I naively thought we'd be swamped by publicists, considering an sff book column in a major newspaper is rarer than a dragon's egg in this day and age.
so, writers, if you ever wondered why you don't get coverage in a newspaper? It's because we never got your book and most likely not even got a PR e-mail for it.
Half the time I don't even get the books publishers *did* say they'll send. So there's that.
Anyway: we're interested in odd books, in international fiction, in exactly the stuff that isn't getting frontlist treatment (frontlist has other places to get mentioned, including the Post's regular reviewers). We love small presses and offbeat books.
And mostly we're very active in seeking out the books we want to cover. But meet us halfway!
To the best of my knowledge, the only major newspapers to feature sf/f book review columns are the Post, NYT, Guardian and the FT (correct me if I'm wrong). We're like gold dust - and it's a huge honour to write one.
I appreciate posting out books is expensive - at the same time, it's literally in a publisher's job description. Please, SEND US BOOKS.
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"You are Thomas Cromwell, the detective?" She said. She had the face of a clock about to run out of time. "I'm Anne. Anne Boleyn."
"What's it to me, Toots?" I said. She shimmied over. She was from that lot of Wolf Hall and everyone knew that lot was trouble.
"I can make it worth your while, " she said. "They say you're tight with the king."
"You're always tight with the king," I told her. "Until he's had enough and chops off your head or locks you in the Tower. Which one are you after?"
She smiled and shook her head. She didn't listen to a word I said. Come to that, I didn't either. I should have listened to my own advice.
In the beginning God created the Heaven and the Earth and the Mean Streets, down which a man must go.
... As soon as he walked into my office I knew he was trouble.
"My name is Adam," he said. "And I think somebody stole my rib."
It was an ugly case of black market organ dealing. It took me deep into the Garden and up against the cherubim and the might of the flaming sword. All to look for a woman. It took me up against the Big Guy himself.
Name's Punch. Full-time puppet, part-time private eye, and ALL trouble. When this dame, Judie, walked into my office I knew she was trouble, I just didn't know how much.
'Tis them pearly kings and queens what did it,' she said.
She had the sort of strings you just wanted to play on all day, if you know what I mean.
'It was them what stole the tarts.'
'Listen, Toots,' I said, 'I don't work divorces and I don't do moppets. This ain't no puppet show.'
She hit me over the head with an iron pan.
'What's this all about then?' I said when I came to.
'We need to establish an APCO on the HOLMES for the TLAs,' she said. 'Modern policing is all about establishing scene of cri-'
I stopped listening at that point.