Tomorrow I will wake up at 4 am, and I will be happy about it. It will be different from the 4 am wake-ups I’ve been getting for the past three and a half weeks. No. This 4 am wake up will be taking me away from Pickles and interrupted sleep and responsibility and chores and doing anything except what I want to do exactly when I want to do it. It is incredible how exciting that is. Parenthood gives a whole new level of meaning to the phrase “it’s the little things.” Wake up in Frankfurt, go to sleep in Brighton.
Tomorrow at this time I will be listening to S.M. Stirling reading. Then I will go meet my couch surfing host, put on a fancy dress and either get let into the Patrick Rothfuss reading at Waterstones (I’m on the waiting list) or go watch the David Gemmell Legend Awards (thus the fancy dress). Parties will follow. Like-minded readers will be met. I will have a beer, or maybe several, and I will not be woken up at 5 am, 6 am, 7 am the next day BY ANYONE AT ALL. I will have spent the morning leisurely walking from one used book store to another, all on their way to the brick hotel on the fucking seaside in which I am going to spend most of the weekend.
My suitcase is already laden with books—pretty pretty copies of books I love and want to have fondled by their respective authors—and it is bound to be even heavier by Monday, when another airplane will whisk me back to Germany.
I’ve been trying to finish the first three books in Scott Lynch’s Gentlemen Bastards series in preparation, but alas, have only made it halfway into Red Seas Under Red Skies (and if you were wondering, the first book, The Lies of Locke Lamora, is fucking awesome. It’s Oceans 11 meets fantasy epic). I would have liked to have read a lot of things. But for now I will be content, no, ecstatic, to mingle with other book lovers and attend panels with names like “Has Elvish left the building?” and “The End Is Now.” It is going to be a great fucking weekend.