Never again. No more. Two books will be enough for me for this lifetime.
Sure, I say it now, given out, wasted, morning-sick of being burdened with this thing not quite fully formed, so ready to have it done and over with.
We’ll see. I’m very very close to having this one out of my hands at least for a few weeks while it goes to print. We are into final edits, the contract and a check for half goes off in today’s mail if the printer in Michigan gets me the form in time.
There are more than 50 images in this book, folks–you’ve seen most or all of them at one time or another, and I’m realizing that this is another “blook”–a book whose words and pixels first met readers right here, though the book is more polished than a typical morning fragment.
I might be wrong, but I think that the pride and satifisaction I will feel holding this book in my hand for the first time (hopefully still in early May) will surpass that of meeting Slow Road Home for the first time exactly three years earlier.
I can’t imagine doing this again. But then, we have another child after the anguish, inconvenience and pain of the last one have passed, don’t we. Books, like children, are born of some odd (pro)creative imperative that is bigger than us. Or a kind of temporary insanity mediated by hormones, coffee and boredom. I dunno.