I have a book. This book took form in my head when I emerged from a dark period in my life and took form on the page soon thereafter. It was the book I wanted to write in the way I wanted to write it. I sent it around and quickly (at least in retrospect; it probably didn’t feel that way at the time) found a literary agent who agreed it was a book that belonged out there in the world. We came close with publishers but never hit a match: it was small when they wanted big; unsettling when they wanted shocking; ironic when they wanted outrage. Then there was the dreaded, unfathomable, “It doesn’t fit our list”—the publishing equivalent of “Really, it’s not you, it’s me.” Editors who wanted it lamented of trying to get it past marketing.
I was left with the shoulda-woulda-coulda embitterment of the thwarted artist, with all the attendant jealousy and resentment (“Why’d they bring out that book and not mine?”) I moved on and wrote and did other stuff while the book sat in my files, following me electronically when I moved or changed computers. Every once in a while a friend would say, “Whatever happened to that book? I loved it!” but I pretty much let it drift into the realm of “oh well”. Until one day I learned about The Espresso Book Machine, a new publishing experiment at a local bookstore. That sounded not too intimidating, even friendly.
This blog has ended.....
4 years ago