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.
Causes Cliff Burns Supports
The Stephen Lewis Foundation, Community Radio