From Russia With Lust [apologies to Ian Fleming]

Black Flame is planning to publish an omnibus collecting my three Nikolai Dante novels under one cover. According to Amazon the book is due out in January and will be selling for a bargain price. Me, I don't get a penny, but it's kind of cool to know I'm going to have my own omnibus. Ahh, if only I still lived near Clapham...

Back when I was writing the first of my Nikolai Dante novels, The Strangelove Gambit, I was struggling to think of a good opening sentence. The book began with an extended prologue set at an auction in a gambling house known as the Casino Royale. Since Dante's adventures sometimes resemble a saucy sci-fi version of James Bond, I turned to Ian Fleming for inspiration. The first sentence of Casino Royale always struck me as a great opening for any novel - perhaps I could borrow it for my own, nefarious purposes? Fleming begins thusly...

The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning. Then the soul-erosion produced by high gambling - a compost of greed and fear and nervous tension - becomes unbearable and the senses awake and revolt from it.

With a few nips and tucks, that was soon transformed into the opening sentences of Nikolai Dante: the Strangelove Gambit...

The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning. But the Casino Royale was a different place at three in the afternoon. Its windows and doors were thrown open, allowing fresh air and natural light into the crimson chamber normally designated members only. Ashtrays were emptied and polished, carpets cleaned and deodorised, lingering fingerprint smears of desperation removed from the brass fixtures and fittings. The casino interior was being scoured clean with the precision of an abortionist’s curette.

Of course, by the time the copy editor had had their wicked way with my manuscript, what appeared in print was this...

The scent, smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning. But the Casino Royale was a different place at three in the afternoon. Its windows and doors were thrown open, allowing fresh air and natural light into the crimson chamber normally designated Members Only. Ashtrays were emptied and polished, carpets cleaned and deodorised, lingering fingerprint smears of desperation removed from the brass fixtures and fittings. The casino interior was being scoured clean with a surgeon's precision.

Guess the copy editor didn't like my mention of an abortionist's curette - shame, as I think it evoked exactly the imagery I was after. Guess that'll teach me to turn my hand to purple prose. Alas, the Ian Fleming opening sentence also got mangled in the transition from my computer to the printed page. I wonder if Ian Fleming had the same problem with his copy editor when Casino Royale was being published in 1953?