It's the official release day for "Enough" and "10 Things for Teen Girls." Here is what's going on:
1. I was leaving for release day work/celebration when Madeline's school called to tell me she was sick. I picked her up.
2. I swung by Barnes & Noble to see the book and post a release day status. The internet was down.
3. I switched locations, tried to post again, Facebook went down.
4. I find myself swindled by a not-so-sick daughter, sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the floor of the children's section of my second Barnes & Noble of the day, half-working, half-reading Tinkerbell and Princess Sofia books. THE GLAMOUR. This is me and my book in the 100 Acre Woods:
6. I plan to spend my evening with my family, eating at home and snuggling the delicious, addictive, angel-cheeks of my babies. Then, post-bedtime, I plan on sitting under a knit blanket, watching Netflix, and eating Werther's hard candies into the night. Because I am 85.
Billy Collins wrote this perfect poem that I wanted to show you. This is what I'm whispering to my books today. (But not literally, because that would be weird.)
Go, little book, out of this house and into the world,
carriage made of paper rolling toward town bearing a single passenger beyond the reach of this jitter pen, far from the desk and the nosy gooseneck lamp.
It is time to decamp, put on a jacket and venture outside, time to be regarded by other eyes, bound to be held in foreign hands.
So, off you go, infants of the brain, with a wave and some bits of fatherly advice:
stay out a late as you like, don’t bother to call or write and talk to as many strangers as you can.
by Billy Collins, from Ballistics, 2008
Talk to as many strangers as you can.
Thanks for reading, friends. So thankful for each of you. Every single last one. I mean that. All of you.
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*and eat them myself because you live too far away.