I found myself recently in a position where I felt it necessary to reread one of my books. For reasons. Reasons that may or may not become clear at some point in the near future. Anyway, that book was Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks.
I haven't read it since I edited the final draft, so it was . . . an experience. I've come a long way since writing this book, and it really wasn't published all that long ago. I found myself grimacing at times. Not at content, mind you, but at wording and phrases. Stuff I'd never do today. I kind of wanted to go back and do it all again, but I'll refrain from that. Once a book is out there, it's out there. Unless you're Stephen King, in which case go ahead and do it.
But I'm not Stephen King, and there will be no revised Gunslinger edition of Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks.
I also caught a few typos, which embarrassed me, and you know how difficult it is for me to feel embarrassed. It was kind of rough.
The good news: it's still the ugly, graphic book I'd always meant it to be, so that's good. It's merciless in its pursuit of poking at the class war that is constant and never ending in America. All in all, reading my own book did not make me feel too much like a loser. Just awkward. I imagine this is the same feeling parents get when their kid does something odd. Not necessarily evil or wrong, just unusual. Yeah, that's my kid. He's . . . weird, but he's OK.
Perhaps soon you will learn why I had to do this. There are things in the works . . . Stay tuned.
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