an author's note

Pretend you’re reading a book right now.

If my editors are the crack shots that I have been led to believe they are, and of which I think they think they are, and if my publishers care more about the quality of the content rather than the profitability of an unknown author – they would’ve had the decent sense to put some maps of the world somewhere in the book that you are now holding in your hands.

Hopefully these maps are near the front of the book, or the back of the book.

As long as they’re not in the middle of the book. That just sort of tends to ruin the feel of the book as you rub your fingers along the edge of its pages, or better yet, open it up and flip through it to feel the course of gushing wind upon your face emanating from within the dark world deep inside it covers.

With most books, these simple actions to me are enticingly erotic, make my nipples tingle, my dick get hard, and goosebumps form underneath the jungle of hair on my lower arms.

There is nothing quite like the thrill that comes from taking my thumb, setting it on the upper right-hand corner of a book, and listening to the torrent of pages rub against one another under the strobe lights of the freakish night club that is called Literaria.

Putting inserts in the middle of a book is basically the literary publisher’s version of cockblocking.

I’d be damned surprised if they didn’t realize what they were doing on some sort of subconscious level.

Come to think of it, if my editors and publishers, or agents, or estate managers, or future robot overlords – all hail – have decided to put anything in the middle of this book that does not belong there, I want you to catch them unawares and throw this book at them.

Put a little gash in their forehead.

After this, when you have inflicted a considerable amount of damage to the left hemisphere of their brain – which is responsible for putting inserts in the middle of books – and the suspect in question is hemorrhaging from the gash in his or her forehead, I would like you to shout top of your lungs:

“Take that you miserable git! That’s what you get for putting inserts in the middle of a book, you inconsiderate paper-pushing uber-Christian pathetic waste of precious oxygen! Random House must have doorhandles, yeah? Why don’t you take those random doorhandles in that random house and shove them up your ass‽”

That should put them in their place.


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