After many frustrations and failures, I finally bound five acceptable versions of A Talking Blue Smell, my creepy poetry manuscript that I never want to see again — two in Coptic binding, three in Codex. They piled up slowly, over what seems like a long long time in retrospect. Yesterday, I suddenly realized I could pack them up and mail them to unsuspecting friends and family, so I did (sorry, guys).
What a weight off my mind. If I had known this lightness of mind was just around the corner, I would have mailed them a whole lot sooner.
The thing is that now I’m thinking how sick I am of A Talking Blue Smell and never want to see it again and what new project can I start, please?
Erm, I don’t think things work that way. Binding five different versions of your own manuscript does not a publication make, dude. You can’t just discard it and move on to fresher things.
Suck it up and go peddle that manuscript. Like everyone else.
Book-binding is still fun, though.