I, my friends, I am wealthy with audio books. My collection has taken a long time to get accumulate, and is almost as large as the physical book collection in our house. I’m dancing in circles, my head to the sky beneath a rain of ones and zeros, a digital downpour of audio performances of some of the great, and most of the not so great books in history. I enjoy audio books when I do not have time to read, when podcasts become boring, and when I have miles and miles to go before I’m home.
I’m editing right now, when I get a chance anyway, you see it’s hard to edit a book written on the road when you spend so little time in front of your computer. The brilliance of others is my daily sanctuary.
I guess you can say that my first manuscript is mostly done. So what does that make me? Have I crossed oved that magical threshold that makes me an author? Who am I kidding, the word is semantics, and you are what you say you are. There is no right of passage to becoming, save for one: writing a book, which for all intensive purposes, I have nearly done.
I am so glad I stopped giving it away as it was being written – the book i mean. Not only have I changed the story by a wide margin, but even the name is different. I am calling it The Pusher. Vague, right? What a learning experience this has been, and here I thought I was a writer. It truly is a craft that one never masters.