It has often been pointed out to me that I have all the zeal for self-promotion of a lungfish peacefully buried under the cracked surface of a droughty pond. I hear that someone’s written something nice about my work, and instead of whirling into a well-oiled mechanical dervish of reposting, tweeting, fbooking, tumbling, googleplexing, and God only knows what else you damned hyperevolved internet big brains do, I sink back down into my mudhole and placidly wait for the monsoon.
I have a nasty headache and can’t see out of one eye, so I’m Googling myself. On blackout day. Because I can’t read anyway. Or draw. So here’s what cleverer people have to say: