After some twenty-six years of intense blood, sweat and tears, and who knows how many letters of rejection, this morning I changed my resume from 'writer' to 'author.' I have a publisher.
The gentleman's name is Kris Millegan. He is a wonderful soul, who has made it his mission to publish books the world's governments would rather the people did not see. And he plays washtub bass in a touring roots band in his spare time. What's not to like?
Kris trades under the imprint 'TrineDay,' and my book's current title (for those of you who don't already know!) is "The Hunt for Margaret Thatcher's Assassin."
I will have oodles of opportunity to thank the many good people who made this possible. But I'm going to single out now my sister, Maggi Gilson, who never stopped believing, and David Wayne, who became my one-man promo machine these past few years, and introduced me to Kris. Thank you, with words unspoken, because none of them suffice.
Right. Well, I'm tickled stupid. I'm going to go compose a song. With a dance that involves a quill pen, some cha-cha moves and a dozen helium balloons ...
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