There was a time last year when I had three manuscripts in my bag. I had the poetry manuscript malingering since grad school that I had to massacre into a chapbook. (And, yes, massacre is pronounced like this.) I had bits of my memoir that I have been trying to get into a publishable state for *many fucking mumbles* years. And I had the small beer book.
It is literally small, and as Paul reminds me, “Small Beer” is a phrase that means “doesn’t amount to much.” It comes from a time when people drank beer instead of water in order to avoid fun things like dysentery. Small beer is low in alcohol content, much like what we now call a session beer.
My first book is creative, but not creative writing. It is literate, but not literary. It is a very fetching shade of orange. I was paid to write it; I will get no royalties. But my name is there. My editor rewrote half the book, I no longer live in Eastern Massachusetts, and there might even be typos (too scared to look). I love it anyway.
So it’s time to come out on my not-very-anonymous blog, because I published a fucking book. I am not famous. You have never heard of me. Yet that’s the corner of my phone, and the tips of the fingers that wrote the damn thing. Buy it here.
Ask me about beer.