The view from the Galley
[Here's this Friday's mailout for the benefit of people who don't subscribe to our newsletter. If you enjoy my rambling, and do want to subscribe, scroll down to the lower regions of this page and enter your email in the box. It would be lovely to have you...]
And oh hell! I have to fix the newsletter I just sent out already. Sorry for flooding your inbox. The first thing to note is that I committed an apostrophe crime somewhere in the text below, and I’m too ashamed to even point out where, and I’m very sorry, but believe me, it hurts me just as much as it hurts you.
On a happier note, Nikesh Shukla, author of our bestselling Galley Beggar Single,The Time Machine, has tweeted to remind me about the announcement that the story is going to be turned into a live performance piece in association with Mayfest and Theatre Bristol. How cool is that?
Anyway, back to the original letter:
Smooch, smoochy, kiss kiss!
Actually, don’t worry, I haven’t got any chocolaty-hearty stuff to flog you off the back of Valentine’s Day. Although, hey! Why not buy one one of our harrowing stories of death and mental disintegration to show your loved one that you respect them???
[Answering that question is not compulsory]
Otherwise, I thought I’d send out a letter in case you haven’t heard our happy news about Eimear McBride winning a nomination for the Folio Prize. Like the Goldsmith’s this is an incredible boost both to Eimear and to us and we’re over the moon. Better still, it’s another indication that people are going to be reading this wonderful book for years to come. Nice work Eimear!
Elsewhere, we’ve started selling previews of our next release, Randall by Jonathan Gibbs. This book is making us all very excited:
Oh yeah! You can read all about it in the store.
And that’s it, for now. This month’s single club release is still this beauty:
Oh and Jeff Bezos, evil Amazon obergruppenfuhrer, still celebrates every person who hasn’t yet taken out a subscription to our singles club. He celebrates by snatching cute little wombat babies from their mother’s teats and bashing their heads against the walls of one of his giant, cold, lifeless warehouses. He’s killed so many now that the floor is a mass of pulp and blood and broken cuteness. And because he won’t let his workers join a union, they haven’t even been able to put welly boots on. Can you believe that man? Next, he’s coming for all that you hold dear.
And listen, I know this letter has been appallingly cynical, but let me redress the balance slightly by saying how much I love the people who subscribe to this list. The thought that people might want to read about the things we are doing really does make me come over all goo-ey and glowy. So thanks!
For hints on how to become among the first of Eimear McBride’s literary pilgrims,click here.
To donate to Galley Beggar Press and earn yet more of our gratitude, click here.