The version I apply to writers is: I'm enchanted by their dedication and acknowledgements page.
In honor of the publication day of TRICKSTER by Jeff Somers, here's what reminded me of that compliment recently:
AcknowledgementsEvery novel has a team of people behind it. First of all, and most important, there is the author, the person who actually wrote it, that is to say, me.
I’d like to start off by thanking myself for all those poor decisions in life that have conspired in complex and unknowable ways to bring me to this junction in my life.
Behind every author is a person who whispers encouragement and dire threats in his ear as he writes, and for me that person is and has been my lovely wife, Danette, to whom I owe everything and who knew I would sell this book, this book you are now holding in your hands, even before I had actually written it— such are the powers my wife possesses. —Let’s see how many commas I can squeeze in here, want to? Commas are fun, and underappreciated, much like writers.
Every author, the guy who actually writes the book, that is, me, has someone in a windowless room somewhere collecting the pennies that cascade in from our crime syndicates and book sales, and also who buys the author drinks, and that person is my redoubtable literary agent, Janet Reid.
Every author, that is, the guy who actually writes the book, which is to say, me again, needs hooligans who tempt him from serious work and encourage him to consume adult beverages in lieu of pious labor, and my hooligans—aside from my aforementioned literary agent, who on many occasions incapacitated me with drink when I should have been home tapping words into a hard disk—were fellow authors Sean Ferrell and Dan Krokos, who so often suggested I spend my time drinking curated whiskeys while viewing Internet celebrity gossip sites, supposedly in an ironic manner, although I suspect the irony was a pose, as I really do enjoy celebrity gossip.
Above and beyond all of these, of course, Olympian and leviathan-like, stands the man who actually signs the contract that sends those pennies cascading to be collected in unused mason jars by my aforementioned literary agent on behalf of me, the author, the guy who actually writes the book, and that person is, of course, my editor, Adam Wilson, whose suggestions and ideas for this book were disturbingly intelligent and interesting, and I thank him for it while simultaneously becoming enraged that anyone might contribute something to my story that I myself did not think of.
Whenever I express these feelings of rage to my aforementioned literary agent she pours two glasses of good Scotch, and at first I think she’s going to have a belt with me but then I slowly realize these are medicinally intended for me. And she’s right, I feel lots better.
Of course, that's Jeff Somers, from his new book TRICKSTER:
Praised by the Guardian for stories that are “exhilarating . . . powerful and entertaining,” Jeff Somers returns with a darkly original urban fantasy series featuring a cadre of mages operating just under the radar of human society.
Magic uses blood—a lot of it. The more that’s used, the more powerful the effect, so mages find “volunteers” to fuel their spells. Lem, however, is different. Long ago he set up a rule that lets him sleep at night: never use anyone’s blood but your own.
He’s grifting through life as a Trickster, performing only small Glamours like turning one-dollar bills into twenties. He and his sidekick, Mags, aren’t doing well, but they’re getting by. That is, until they find young Claire Mannice— bound and gagged, imprisoned in a car’s trunk, and covered with invisible rune tattoos.
Lem turns to his estranged mentor for help, but what they’ve uncovered is more terrifying than anybody could have imagined. Mika Renar, the most dangerous Archmage in the world, is preparing to use an ocean of blood to cast her dreams into reality— and Lem just got in her way.