Requesting an advance review copy usually goes like this. You find a title you would like to read before publication, you send a short request to the publisher or the author, and you explain who you are and where you plan to post a review. Most requests are approved or declined within a couple of weeks. Reviewers who post honest, timely write-ups tend to get approved again. If you are turned down, it is rarely personal, since publishers often cap the number of copies they hand out. Read the guidelines on the request page, keep your review within the stated window, and do not resell the copy.
That is the useful part. The rest is a transcript, because Grandma was holding the door open when the third request of the morning arrived, and the Ledger asked for a record of it.
VISITOR: Hi. I'm here to request a review copy.
GRANDMA: Oh! Oh my goodness. Look at you. Come in, come in, you must be freezing. You got so tall.
VISITOR: I think you have me confused with someone else.
GRANDMA: I would know you anywhere. You have your grandfather's coat. Sit. There is a chair that does not wobble, and it is the one with the cardigan on it. That's Aunt Eileen's. You can move it.
VISITOR: I just need the form. Where do I submit a request?
GRANDMA: Of course, dear. Of course. First, have you eaten? Let me start by saying that I have been standing by this door since 1997 and not one of you has called ahead.
VISITOR: Okay. Is there an approval process?
GRANDMA: There is a very thorough approval process. I look at you for a while. Then I decide whether you are thin. You are thin. Approved.
VISITOR: Great. So where do I download the book?
GRANDMA: Download! Listen to this one. Nobody downloads anything here. We have a shelf by the radiator with paper on it, and the paper is warm. You can take one. You can take two, if you promise to bring them back with a note in the margin that says what you thought. That is the review. That has always been the review.
VISITOR: I'm supposed to post my review online.
GRANDMA: To who?
VISITOR: To... readers.
GRANDMA: I am a reader. I am right here. I will take it now. Go on.
VISITOR: I don't think I'm in the right place. A lot of people seem to end up here.
GRANDMA: Every morning, sweetheart. I keep a plate out for each one. Nobody has told me why they are all so lost, and I have decided that is the Lord's business and none of mine. The plates are the good ones. Please do not chip one. Randy will know.
VISITOR: Who is Randy?
GRANDMA: Randy is the boy with the red wagon. He doesn't talk to me. He reads the notes I leave on the fridge and he never forgets a name, which is more than I can say for your cousins. He has your name already, and I'd guess he's had it since you parked.
VISITOR: I haven't told anyone my name.
GRANDMA: That is what makes it impressive.
VISITOR: Is there a limit on how many I can request?
GRANDMA: As many as you can carry. And you will carry them, because I will be watching from the window, holding up my hands. It is a whole system. Aunt Eileen invented it.
VISITOR: Does the author get notified?
GRANDMA: The author is a fragile organism who lives on toast and hope. I have no way of reaching him. But I will tell you what I do. I tell the lake. The lake is very good at keeping a thing. When you leave a kind word out here, it goes down in the water, and sometime in October it comes back up in the right person's dream.
VISITOR: That's... not how that works.
GRANDMA: Show me the form that says otherwise.
(There is a pause in the recording here. The recorder picked up eleven seconds of what sounds like a screen door and a warm wind. Nobody has ever found a form.)
VISITOR: Thank you. I think I'll head out.
GRANDMA: You're leaving already? But you only just got here. Wait. Take the sandwich. Take the book. Take the cardigan. It is a little scratchy but it has never once lost an argument.
VISITOR: I really can't, I'm sorry.
GRANDMA: Then promise me you'll call. You won't call. None of you call. Go on, then. Mind the step. It is fine. It has been fine since 1997.
The visitor left with one paperback and, according to the camera, an expression of real confusion that slowly relaxed into something more like peace. They did not return a review. They have, however, been seen twice at the end of the driveway, looking back at the house.
If you came for a copy and left with a sandwich, you may want to look at the free books situation, or wander through the library, where the shelves are patient and the radiator is on.
Authors are fragile organisms who have never been sent a review copy of their own feelings, so please buy a book. Write the note in the margin. Bring a sweater. Grandma will know whether you did.
Warmly,
Booktrovert #2625