International House of Snot

Back to the old grind and already dripping in snot. Not mine, Gideon's. He woke up with a cold. He knows how to use a tissue, but sometimes it's too tempting not to rub his slimey face all over me -- I'm irresistible like that.

Last night I ordered the print proof of Laurel's The Myth of the Simple Machines. Soon I'll order print proofs for Hugh's Shy Green Fields and Jill's Harlot. Just waiting for some minor tweaks on the covers.

For the past few weeks (yes, on my vacation) I've been reading 10 manuscripts for consideration for the 2008 list. I'm close to making my decisions. It'll be a smaller list than the last two years. I'd like to publish all of them, but can't. Have to scale back, killing myself. I'm not interested in getting another co-editor or interns or anything like that. I'm keeping the press small and intimate on purpose. No plans for world domination, I'll leave that to all the cultural capitalists in the hizzy. I'm content in my mud hut, lacquered in snot.