On publishing my first poetry chapbook during COVID With love, faith, and ample allowance for depression
Over a year ago my publisher, God Bless Her Heart, signed on for an ‘urban-fantasy’ novel and yet, here we are now, and I’m debuting my first book of poetry. You’d almost be forgiven to think, for good reason, that I’d pulled a fast one on her. Executed a sleight of hand; the old switcheroo — ! “Not true!” I’d harrumph in protest. The novel, all 3/4ths of which, by the way, is actually complete, is just gestating, I’d say. It’s nearly complete, but needs some time yet to ripen. I’m doing some additional research. Reviewing story lines and story structure and plot development and rhythmic flow and — Well, yeah. All of that. And more. And none of it. And COVID and spiraling levels of depression and parenthood and strained relationships and love and loss and — Yeah. So, marjorie steele (God Bless Her Heart) got a book of poetry, Songs for the Cleveland Avenue Warriors , for her press, instead of a novel. She even acted as if she were enthused for the whole endeavor; put in a treme