I am up at 1:30 a.m. because my phone clanged whilst I was reading a library book. It was an e-mail from that publisher letting me know that the book I ordered, pre-ordered and pre-paid in the first fresh days of February will not be sent to me.
They are out of stock. The book is back ordered.
I call baloney.
I ordered that book on the very day they released their press release. They were more than happy to accept my order and my credit card information, as well as charge a premium price for quick delivery.
Now, on the day of publication, the book is not available.
You are the publisher.
You know exactly how many copies of the book were pre-ordered.
You have known, at least since the day of your press release, how many copies you needed to print.
You are a famous and successful publisher and were well aware of how popular and eagerly awaited this title was going to be.
I sent a message via your Customer Service option to cancel my order.
I am not a snippy person, nor am I unaware of the issue regarding publication of books. I worked in a bookstore for twenty years. I know this stuff.
I am not a weirdly flighty person, subject to fits of immature disappointment, and, frankly, I am a bit surprised myself how disappointed I am to have received your e-mail notice. But, I am. Disappointed.
Sufficiently dispirited to cancel my order and wait until I find a copy in a bookstore or at my library. I just put the title on my reserve list, and will be waiting for quite a while, which is fine.
I will recover from this truly petty response and will be fine by morning, but I am still cancelling my order.
I am such a baby. I wish I could be more ashamed about this pettifogging and surprising and...did I mention ridiculous...aspect of myself. All right, I am a little ashamed, but I cancelled my order and I am stickin' to it.