Charles Finch

I found out recently that Library Journal has named A Beautiful Blue Death one of the best books of 2007. Last year's list had about sixty books on it, only five of them mysteries; an honor, given that LJ reviews something like 6,000 books a year. Sure, half of those are by James Patterson. But what about the other half?

For me one of the strangest parts about publishing this book is that I haven't read it since it was in manuscript. I'm sure there are last minute changes I've never scanned, and probably some typos I haven't caught. Last week I vaguely contemplated cracking the spine of my reading copy, but now that I'm giving its sequel a third close read in the last month, I remember why I haven't: between writing a book and seeing it published, you lose all perspective on its contents. Sometimes I think how satisfying it must be for a composer to hear his symphony in its full glory for the first time, or for an artist to see her sculpture installed in a gallery somewhere. No such satisfaction for the writer and his 80,000 words, unfortunately. But I have to admit the deep pleasure I had in opening a package and finding inside it real, tangible copies of my book. Dozens of them! Sometimes reproduction can enhance an object's aura, I guess.