Author Lucy Sanna confesses to what many writers keep secret in her latest column for San Francisco Book Review's "The Back Page."
Here I am, packing again. I’m out of clean undies. Do I have time to do laundry or… is Macy’s still open?
It’s called a book tour. A good problem to have.
What every writer wishes for is an audience. We dream about it as we slink to our writing spaces in the dark of night with our coffee or wine or whatever kind of smoke suits our fancy, our backs to dirty dishes and bills and clogged drains. We night owls go to bed just before dawn, and bleary eyed at the café in the morning, we expose our crazy night writing to the glare of day and wonder where it came from, and we haven’t bathed and our hair is frightening and we don't expect to see anyone we know, and when someone says hello we blink and wonder for a moment because we’re not in that world right now. The people staring, that’s not the audience I’m talking about. Read More
Here I am, packing again. I’m out of clean undies. Do I have time to do laundry or… is Macy’s still open?
It’s called a book tour. A good problem to have.
What every writer wishes for is an audience. We dream about it as we slink to our writing spaces in the dark of night with our coffee or wine or whatever kind of smoke suits our fancy, our backs to dirty dishes and bills and clogged drains. We night owls go to bed just before dawn, and bleary eyed at the café in the morning, we expose our crazy night writing to the glare of day and wonder where it came from, and we haven’t bathed and our hair is frightening and we don't expect to see anyone we know, and when someone says hello we blink and wonder for a moment because we’re not in that world right now. The people staring, that’s not the audience I’m talking about. Read More