I am a writer.
I used to be a writer. But several community projects, not the least of which is Squatchberry Literary Festival, have pre-empted my time.
I have several manuscripts in my queue to be prepared for publication. That does not include my second novel, which I am supposed to be working on every day, and which is now so far down the queue as to be almost mythical.
One manuscript, the first volume in a series of five, has been prepared recently – for e-book publication. In fact, it is now available on Kindle Direct Publishing under the title The Annals of Goshen. By the time I finish this post, I will have the same manuscript prepared for print publication, and expect it to be on hand for the Festival.
Such is the speed and convenience of indie publishing and digital printing.
Goshen, by the way, is a mythical community (Hey, who coulda guessed?) in Northwestern Ontario, smack in the middle of the biggest squatchberry patch ever. Over a period of five years, E.J., my muse, passed on observations about the people and places that surround him, or her, and commented on the scene beyond Squatchberry Country. The result is five collections of newspaper columns. And the result is . . . well, intelligent, and silly, and emotionally moving, and, of course, occasionally hilarious. I know the intelligent reader will like it. That means you.
Being an indie, I am responsible for everything about a book – the writing, the editing, the composition, the design, and the graphics– in order to produce a camera-ready copy for digitial printing.
The graphics include a book cover. You already glanced at it above. What does it signify?
In the Land o’ Goshen, there have to be trees, of course. And one of the ubiquitous wild animals is the black bear. And what does a bear proverbially do in the woods?
Okay. Besides that.
It sidles. Between the trees.
I don’t really know how it does that. But I’ve seen it. One minute it’s in the middle of the road, squatting, and depositing a load of gastro-intestinally-processed squatchberries, and the next, it has melted into the woods.
It has melted into a barrier of timber that is truly intimidating to the hiker, or to the gol-darned fool who would even dream of following that beast into the howling wilderness.
And bears do howl.
Okay. Maybe it was the wolves howling.
The point is, the woods in my neck of the woods do howl.
So, what do you think of my truncated bear? I was going to say “my trunk-ate-it bear”, but then I thought the pun would be too obvious to an intelligent reader. That means you.
That’s true, isn’t it.
I mean, the part about its being obvious.
Therefore. If the company that digitally prints and then binds my latest book lives up to its end of the deal, I will be launching The Annals of Goshen at Squatchberry Literary Festival.
As a presenter.
Does life get any better for a writer?
Which I am.
I neglected to acquire the cataloguing-in-publication information from our beloved government, and now I’m told it may take up to ten days.
Ten days. That blows my deadline. I’ll never get the book printed in time.
I won’t be the first writer that’s been screwed by the bureaucracy.
I like the sound of that.
That’s what I am.