Yak wanted

As you can probably tell from this less-than-quarterly entry, I’ve been proper busy. I am not a writer. A writer’s writer I mean. I took a solemn vow as an impressionable teenager to NEVER get involved with anything creative. It’s just, well… dangerous.

This may have had something to do with my dad (who was very much a writer’s writer) having a writer’s tantrum and throwing a box full of copies of his latest book from an upstairs window, narrowly missing my daydreams below.

Now that I have finally caved in and become him, or rather a less well read, less connected, less successful ( in writing terms) version of him, it occurs to me that I really ought to have a box of books in my arsenal ready to throw out of a window.

This would, inevitably, be wonderful therapy for the sheer frustration encountered when trying to find someone to print me a simple, inexpensive, black and white, thirty pages poetry booklet. I’ve done the e-book. Easy. I just want to gently hand a few hard copies to hapless friends without killing them.

In this wonderfully technological age, it should, I foolishly assume, be a simple matter of searching, clicking and ordering online. Never before has there been such an array of technological wizardry available.

I tell you, to get this PERFECTLY SIMPLE job done, it would be easier to go into my shed yesterday, reconstruct from memory I do not possess, an exact copy of the original Gutenberg press, from half set Galician yak fudge.

Books though. Pah!

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