Almost five years ago now, I wrote about the strange feeling of going to the a local copy shop to print out copies of my novel in preparation for a manuscript workshop. More specifically, about the strange feeling of walking out of the store with them, that something existing only in my mind had now taken a physical form, had become a thing that existed in the world, like a rock or a highway or a batch of cookies cooling on the counter.
Yesterday, I got that feeling again but more so, when I got home from work to find a largish box in my lobby addressed to me. I took it upstairs, noting its return address of La Porte, Indiana, which must be where HarperCollins makes them. (It’s reassuring that books at least are still manufactured domestically.)
Inside, I found eco-friendly bubble wrap and 20 pounds of The Jane Austen Project. For some reason I was reminded of a Richard Brautigan poem:
The Net Wt. of Winter is 6.75 Ozs
A month ago I bought a huge tube
of Crest tooth paste and when I put it
in the bathroom, I looked at it
and said, “Winter.”