Nasty Reviews, Redux

I've just set a particularly mean review to publish on Tuesday morning -- in part so that I can, if I feel like it, look it over again tomorrow and perhaps tone it down before it actually publishes.

I doubt that I'll change it -- I read this particular book (why am I being so coy? It's Mira Grant's Feed, the second-least deserving Hugo nominee of this past year) well over a month ago, and I've been seething about it ever since, so it's unlikely another day will tone down my bile. But it does seem like an official cooling-off period is in order, just to be sure.

So there could have been a major post here today, but I postponed it for what might even be humanitarian purposes. You're welcome, I suppose.

(I think of this note as a coda to the three-year-old On Bad Reviews rather than as a tease to the upcoming post, though I've just realized that you folks reading this will probably take it as the latter. To make it up to you, I'll now reveal that the book I was talking about in that old post was Jack O'Connell's The Resurrectionist. You're welcome again.)