The Proof is in the Pudding.

This came in the mail tonight. The Proof copy of the print edition of my novel. Wow. So... self publishers of the world who have a tenacious spirit and a can do attitude, the proof lays before you. It can be done. I am neither proficient at InDesign, or copywriting, or Photoshop or even writing. I am a relentless bastard however and the book does smell pretty damn good. If I can do it... Well... to thine own self be true, but I say you can.

Of course, thanks to the dozens of people who have helped and supported me. I am going to run a fine toothed comb through the book this week and then off to the presses and back to the PR train! Analogue book release and self promotion campaign, take two.

My goal this year was to break even... My quick math tells me I need to sell about 250 books to pull that off. From where I am sitting that seems like a lot. Can I get a re-tweet?

-Thom

Near. Far.

A couple of weeks back a picked up a 79 Kawasaki KZ 400 for a guy in Florence. It wasn't running but it was a Grover-blue shade of exactly the same motorcycle I drove from Nebraska to New York a decade ago and rode in the big city for about 6 years. With a little tinkering with the wiring and some wisdom from Andreas, the man who taught me to ride when I was 18, the bike sparked to life. I my free moments, I have been zipping around town and the back roads of agricultural/suburban Omaha.

From the first moment I got in the bike, it was like be reunited with an old friend. We stepped right into place, like no time had passes at all. As much as I resist nostalgia, my bodybrain has recalled a swarm of buried memories, of my previous life atop this motorcycle:

Night rides in the Bronx, City Island, Verrazano Bridge. NYC on a motorcycle is a vivid and exhilarating  experience. I rode through the blue ridge mountains in a thunderstorm. I saw a full moon reflected in the ocean on the Jersey Shore. I sat next to old Latino fishermen on the docks of Coney Island. 

Dozens of these memories have been coming back to me. I used to park the bike inside my Bushwick loft and cruise around the streets in Henry Miller's Topic of Cancer, wondering if I could resurrect the man in my own writing. That was how I spent my twenties. 

Last night I received the proof copy of The Turpike in the mail. Many of my experiences are superimposed over this wayward American road novel. There is still work to be done of course, I need to read through the proof, organize another local reading or two, write another press release etc... All sorts of things. Having this analogue book in my hands is a milestone. All these stories. The reunion with the motorcycle however begs the question. But has my life wrapped itself in a ribbon and settled into a dusty cupboard? As warm as these old memories feel, it is time to get back on the road. I would rather be an empty vessel, waiting to be filled, then a cup full to the brim that sloshes everywhere anytime you try to move it. 

Old and new. Full and empty.