Pile Up

Some weeks ago a publisher sent me a pile of books.  I'm reading through them slowly but meticulously . . . the various titles (mostly travel books) seeping in through my eyeballs and oozing out of my pores.  As I've retreated to the bottom of the pile, I find I can't recall the title of the book at the top.

That's the trouble with books.  They breed like rabbits.  Or, as the writer of Ecclesiastes noted, "Of the making of many books there is no end."

Still, I enjoy making books.  I plan to make more of them.  Or, I write them at least.  What happens to them after I write them is anybody's guess.

Here at the bottom of another year, I can look back and see the days of 2012 piled behind me like a stack of old library cards.  Some of these days stand out.  Others are simply blank.

And as I look ahead to 2013, I anticipate a better year . . . as long as God blesses me with good health, keen eyes, a strong typing hand, and the ability to carry on with coffee through hours of exhaustion.  I do know that 2012 was better than 2011 as far as my published output was concerned.  I was blessed with far more acceptances, hundreds of published pages, and now stand on the brink of other negotiations that are both exciting and equally unnerving.

It's one thing to sign a book contract(s).  But quite another thing to write the book(s). 

Or, as my wife continually asks me, "If you end up getting that many writing assignments next year, when will I ever see you?"

I keep reminding her that we don't have to have romance every day.  She can just check in every month or so to see if I'm still breathing.  If I'm sitting in a chair in front of my writing station she can assume I'm still alive.  And if she brings me a pile of balogna sandwichs, I might get romantic.