so it turns out that if you spend thirty-six years writing without locating a publisher who will publish you & then just saying “fuck it” and squirreling all your writings away, you create a bit of a situation.
i just went through some actual folders (not virtual ones) to find these gems from the early 90s when i was still using a typewriter because, fuck it, i am….(wait, what’s the opposite of cutting-edge?)
(if i am a dinosaur i want to be a velociraptor.)
wait–you know what–i am going to circle back & say i am cutting edge. i was years ahead of the hipster typewriter trend. i am a goddamned trendsetter.
typewriters are cool.
so, in addition to my working on creating a book from select pages of my art journal self-portrait series, i am also working on putting together a collection of short stories.
short stories that i wrote, and then left to age.
i think they are well-aged at this point, and ready for harvest.
how would that metaphor work?
as you can see from this incoherent post, i am using all of my brain power for editing short stories & art journals while juggling four screaming minions.
meanwhile…i am almost almost so close to being done with the postcard commission & the portrait commission.