Posters are kind of like the covers of novels. They hint at a story, but lack content. They are huge hollow books. Yet, somehow--despite their vapid nature--they weigh a whole lot.
For five weeks I put down the pen and picked up a truck full of several tons worth of posters and poster products which I sold around the country to help pay for the houses we live in here, and to support the writers' project. It's crazy ridiculous work that pays less than minimum wage for most parties involved, but who else would ever give you so many hours in just one month?
I'm back now. Back to writing essays, and stapling books. Tomorrow and the next day I'll be tabling at the Small Press Festival at the Artist Image Resourse Center, and on Sunday at one I'll be giving a lecture there, "Islands in the Void: creating and maintaining a writers' project and producing in a non-collegiate environment."
The house is in the best form I can remember it ever being, and I imagine some impressive things should be sprouting out of this crowd sometime soon. It's good to be back. It's good to be writing.
The house is in the best form I can remember it ever being, and I imagine some impressive things should be sprouting out of this crowd sometime soon. It's good to be back. It's good to be writing.
