I’m a little stressed out this week. No biggie, just the regular stuff that all authors obsess about to the point of illness think about in the days before a new book becomes real. We all oh, man. I hope it’s not just me spend those weeks days tossing around really big issues little questions like all the bookstores around here are closing I think that can’t be good where’s the industry going? We spend some time freaking out and wondering if the book will get reviewed and if that’s okay or not considering the significance of having a body of work come into the world and be read. We think about what might come next for us, a job at McDonalds if I haven’t done a good enough job, that’s what and keeping things in perspective.

We rest up if we can, what with the way everyone is about to hate the book we wrote and we start getting our notes together for the interviews we’ll give I have to go on tv and I’m pretty sure I’m going to say seventeen stupid things consider the relationships we have with our publishers not that it matters, now that it’s all over and start thinking about what we’ll say at the readings we’ll give. Nobody’s coming, but it’s nice to read for the bookstore staff.

Then we all do something I think knitting or heroin are the two choices that takes the edge off. It’s a terrifying special time.