Posts Tagged ‘mr. stitch’

Is apparently made by hilarious idiots?  In the first place, the best way to submit a text for conversion is as a web page.  Which, you know, makes sense, in its way, though it’d be nice if it said that somewhere on the DTP website.

But equally hilarious is the fact that, even when you submit it as a web page, their “conversion process” still takes out tabs, spaces, switches sentences around, removes headings, all apparently at random.

It turns out that the REAL best way to do it is to have Smashwords convert it into a Kindle file first, and then, once someone else has already done the work of conversion, only THEN submitting it to Amazon.  Which still puts it through a “conversion process”, but hopefully isn’t making it look like shit?

It’s hard to tell, because the preview function doesn’t actually show you what the book is going to look like one someone’s Kindle.

Anyway.  New version out to the Kindle; in theory, it ought to correct any formatting problems if you’ve already bought it.  As usual, if it doesn’t, email threatquality (at) gmail (dot) com, and I can just send you the damn thing, because I HAVE IT, and it’s LEGIBLE, it’s just that Amazon’s system is run by idiots.

Alternately, you can get a good Kindle version of Mr. Stitch or The Translated Man and Other Stories here at Smashwords.

KAPOW!  Party time, you punk suckers!  Today is the day that Threat Quality Press’s two newest novels drop.  They are available, as it were, primed and ready for your rapacious gaze.  Quivering with anticipation.  Here, anyway, have some champagne.

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[I keep wanting to write the Corsay novels with a chapter in the beginning that’s completely unrelated to the rest of the book, except thematically; like those opening ten or fifteen-minute scenes in the James Bond movies, but Holland keeps telling me I can’t.  So, for your enjoyment and delectation, I’ve converted the opening gambit of Mr. Stitch to a short story, and provided it here.]

“How long has she been like this?”

It was very quiet in the Coopers’ front room.  Their daughter, young Agnes, was in the tiny bedroom she ordinarily shared with her two brothers.  She was alone now, and her mumbling could barely be heard behind the heavy door.  Her parents—mother puffy-eyed and red-nosed, haunted by fear for her little girl; father stoic in the way of a working man of Trowth, determined as desperation mounted to be more fiercely unavailable to it—sat on their low, shabby couch, and said nothing.  Valentine Vie-Gorgon leaned against the wall, arms crossed, doing his best to look serious, but unable to keep the compassion from his face.  Two gendarmes crowded into the room as well.  Beckett didn’t know their names, he’d conscripted them on the way to the Coopers’.  The new knocker stood just inside the front doorway.

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