where the writers are
A brand new bouncing baby book

I suppose it's the closest to an actual birth experience I'll ever get.

Yesterday the proof of my new book arrived, a western titled The Last Hunt.  Now, this isn't the first book I've published, this is something like number ten, including chapbooks and what have you.  But I have to say the sense of excitement, anticipation, soaring hopes and crushing doubts that presage the impending publication of a new book haven't changed, I still haven't become jaded and indifferent when another novel or collection is ready for release.  It's an occasion for celebration, a round of cigars and raised glasses--

As I opened that box and unwrapped The Last Hunt, I was shaking, hardly able to breathe.  Would it live up to expectations? Was I right to go with a larger font? Is the cover too dark?  Like a fearful parent worrying over the health and prospects of their newborn child. Anxious that he/she is breathing well and has all their fingers and toes.

I've got two sons so let me be clear: I'd haul them out of a burning building first....before going back in and allowing myself to be immolated with my books. My entire body of work isn't worth a single one of their cells...but each one of those lovely volumes still commands an enormous amount of love, loyalty and prickly, defensive pride.  I fret over the tiniest details, worry about what people say about them. Dress them in the finest clothes and hope the world will treat them with patience and kindess.