It will soon, in October, be three years since the first volume of Letters of Note was published. Three long, surreal years. This was my first book, and making it very nearly broke me into the tiniest of smouldering pieces. My wife, too. And my editor. Oh, and my publisher. Maybe some of you, too, as you waited patiently for delivery of the not-exactly-cheap book you had generously helped to crowdfund approximately a century beforehand. Those were the days. Thankfully, it was worth every minute of the hair-pulling. That book remains, and I imagine will always remain, the highlight of my “working” life. It’s a gorgeous thing of which I am incredibly proud.
On October 6th of this year (UK only right now, sorry) it will be joined by the very pretty ‘Portable Edition’ seen above, photographed just now on my infuriatingly draughty floor. It’s Letters of Note, in paperback form. The same book, magically redesigned to fit in a smaller body. A Letters of Note book that you, a human of average strength, can pick up with one hand. Shield your eyes from the blinding bias as I tell you this: I honestly think it’s one of the most beautiful books I’ve held. A copy arrived this morning and I have done almost nothing but gawp at it ever since. I fear I may never stop. It will be available in all sensible bookshops from October 6th—indeed, I would consider boycotting any shops in which you cannot find a copy. Write to your MP or something. Start one of those petitions. The book will also be available on Amazon, no doubt priced at 10p, or maybe even free for Primers, shot right into your mouth by a drone before you’ve even checked out. And who wants that?
If you can, buy it from a shop. A little one. Give your money to a person with a face and make them happy. Tell them you love their bookshop. Have a nice chat. Take a thermos and hand them a cup of hot tea. Give them cakes. When you get home, write them a letter. Send me a copy too. I’m running out.