I’m delighted to report that the release date for Mortality Bridge has been moved up from November to July. I’ve done a teaser page on the Mortality Bridge website and will be putting more info & goodies up there as pub date nears. This also pretty much guarantees that I’ll be going to this year’s World SF Convention in Reno, and makes World Fantasy Con in San Diego more likely for me as well.
I will be reading from Mortality Bridge at FogCon on Saturday, March 12, at 9:30 PM.
I’m very jazzed about this. But the real Gift from On High came in the mail yesterday: Advance Reading Copies (ARCs, also known as bound galleys) of Mortality Bridge.
It was an odd and affecting moment for a number of reasons. First (and most superficially), because I have a bit of a reputation for being a big proponent of digital media and the possibilities it creates for writers (and also changes that are both liberating and wrenching). I’ve seen this book in electronic form a bunch of times now. Word-processed in at least 30
drafts (not remotely an exaggeration). I typeset it & laid it out in two-up format for a limited edition of 10 handbound copies with endpapers and matching bookmarks that I marbled, back when it was called Ferry Cross the Mercy (a title whose loss I confess I mourn). I’ve seen it professionally typeset and sent to me in PDf from Bill Schafer of Subterranean Press for my input on layout and design, then for a couple of proofreading rounds (and for which I am forever grateful to Bill — do you know how often writers get input on layout & design of the text? Ace was wonderful about this on Elegy Beach, and Bill has been a God Among Men).
So you’d think I’d be all, Oh, look, here are the bound galleys. How nice.
Not even close. Here it was, the thing itself, which I have worked on harder and believed in more completely than anything I’ve ever written. And suddenly I’m holding it. It weighs something, and every ounce of its inconsequential weight in my hand is suddenly worth every bit of effort I have put into it. Will put into it.
I’ve been told it’s an age thing, that below a certain line (let’s say 35), the physical book doesn’t hold any more weight (yuck yuck) than the digital. I’m sure there must be some merit to that. I fully recognize the irony of my arguing for all of this cutting-edge, paradigm-shifting, grassroots-empowering digital technology and yet not feeling that my book is real until it’s its own thing in my greedy little hands.
Which leads me to the second reason the unexpected arrival of the bound galleys was an odd and affecting moment: Because this book is the product of twenty-five years of work (not remotely an exaggeration; I started it in 1986). Because I literally wrecked my life to write it (not an exaggeration, either — the six years it took to write the first draft, this thing owned me, buddy, and it made me work shit jobs and trash relationships that demanded more attention, and wouldn’t let up until it was done.) Because my agent — no slouch in the taste or reputation department (and bless you eternally, Richard) — believed in it utterly and championed it completely. Because as much as I think this is the best thing I’ve ever done, I had to grow into it, had to become something more to step up to what the book wanted to be. And just as important, because ultimately I needed years of distance from it to understand what it needed to be apart from my blind obeisance and obsession. Sometimes you have to be able to cast a cold eye at what you love most to see what it really needs to make it realize itself.
All of that between generic covers without artwork in my hand, all unexpected on a Tuesday. I took it to Starbucks to give it a quick look while I worked on Avalon Burning, and I sat down with my cup of coffee and pulled it out of my book bag and all of a sudden I’m choking up. I mean if I give it half a chance this dam’s gonna break, baby.
I was startled by that. I remain amazed that it’s possible to be startled by how you feel about something. I mean, who is it who’s startled and who is it who’s feeling? And why don’t those two communicate better?
Anyway.
I’ll record the FogCon reading and post it here. And god knows what quivering mass of instant pudding I’ll be reduced to when the final hardcover shows up.
I remember reading the start of the handbound copy in your living room while you were busy cooking an elaborate and delicious dinner. I knew there was no way I could finish it before I left, but I figured I’d read the rest of it eventually, in one form or another.
I don’t think either of us even suspected it would take over a decade for that to happen. But I’m glad it finally will.
In my mind, it will always be Ferry Cross the Mercy, too.
That was when it was in the original cuneiform, wasn’t it?
In my experience — admittedly not typical — novels become about themselves. And indeed Niko’s epic, painful, dark, and funny odyssey — including the lessons he learns and the way the book ends — are almost a metaphor for the book’s long journey into print.
I treasure my hardbound copy of “Ferry.” It’ll always hold a special place in my heart and my bookshelf. I’m pretty sure I’ll cry like a little girl reading the final version, too.
Yo, Lo! I understand congrats are in order. Woo hoo! I hope you are ecstatically happy.
I’m hugely stoked about the Subterranean edition of Mortality Bridge, and gratified & flattered that my friends are, too. Thank you!