[Please Note: Thisisnotalettertomyself.]
Dear Mr. Adams,
O’ namesake, here’s a gentlemanly handshake.
Will quit the mocking couplets. Now.
Firstly, the suggestion that your book might be something like Bukowski’s Post Office was a mixture of glib humour and some of the highest praise these keyboard-clunking fingers could bestow. It’s up there with Don Delillo’s Great Jones Street, which sits atop my favourite books list.
To my mind, all the best writers draw on their demons to flesh out their fiction, and as you say yourself, you’ve grown up very publicly and have become somewhat renowned as an abuser of whiskey and other such escape hatches... You're tetchy but fair enough, was only speculating content-wise, as your near-incomprehensible introduction to the book made for slim pickings.
As for you cussing me and my job to your fans/readers, I’d just like to take this opportunity to point out that it’s my job, nay, it’s my life mission to champion the music I love. It’s the same reason I started my label and why eight years ago I created Drowned in Sound as an arena for others to share their passion. Yeah, like anything, with love comes pain and there are asides and slights at people along the way. There are snarky tongue-pokes and sticks in bike spokes but that makes up about five percent of our output here on the site.
There’s a lot of love ‘round these parts, especially for your music.
Know thy enemy because you’re shooting at a barrel full of apples.
Show us what you’ve got.
We’d be more than happy to share an excerpt of your book with our readers.
Yours laying down the gauntlet...