I've had to buy myself a physical planner, an analog thing with a zippered pouch, to store receipts (taxes!) and colored pens (green: the press; blue: the journal; black: family; red: my own writing life-do I still get to have that? yes, I think yes).
I've made myself write little goals for the days. Today, email people to garner interest in a board of directors. Finalize first round edits on the first manuscript. The end.
It's the first day of my daughter's summer vacation, and my son is at my feet, singing tweet tweet! I understand, now, why it is called "kitchen table press." Last night, my husband and I floated ideas, considered renting an office downtown so we could detach (me for the press, him for his contract work). Not yet. For now, I am once again turning to our sliver of a guest room, which doubles as my poetry books room, and I'm clearing shelves, clearing the desk. I won't hog this dining space for much longer. We have to put the operation on the floor at dinner.
Soon, shelves will be lined with backstock and postcards and other promotional material. Files. Soon, walls will be filled with framed things like first book covers and broadsides from our authors.
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I've finished my first read-through of our first manuscript-that-will-be-book. I've physically felt it as I read it, felt my own heart swell like a slammed thumb, felt it ache like only an organ can do. I've gotten bleary at the beauty of it, at where it moves me. I've made that noise, you know the one, that sounds like mmmmm, like something has turned over inside of you.