It's a little known fact that many think being a publicist is all about long lunches, hip and cool authors, good looking personal assistants and generally lubricious conversations in out of the way wine bars, like this one. Well, kids, it's just not so. No, in reality, much of our time here on the publicity frontlines is spent stuffing books and papers into envelopes and boxes. Sitting at the computer on the UPS web site. Printing press material, only to find out that the fucking printer has clogged heads and by unclogging them you have used up the remaining ink and so you have to leave and interrupt your rhythm and drive to Office Depot to buy replacements.
Oh well, somebody has to do it.
I'm working on the Tierney Cahill book, the new WritersCorps book from City Lights, about to start on a very unusual project about the history of women cops, and then a laff-riot called the White Guy: A field manual. Eve Pell's incredibly compelling memoir, We Used to Own the Bronx is about to launch as well.
Really, in the end, I'm pretty darn lucky to be able to do what I do. It's completely unnerving much of the time - can you spell "cash flow issues"? But still....