The other day someone sent me this:
This is me when I was 21 or 22, and it’s my author photo from the first and only edition of a punk rock novel I wrote when I lived in Chicago. It’s not a period of life that I have any pictures from. The book came out and was awesome, although there ended up being a typographical error in the ‘about the author’ section, which still haunts me even though I didn’t write it or type it. Post-Traumatic Press (RIP) did a teeny tiny run of it in 2001 or 2. It sold out I think within a year or so, at least in part to people I am not related to, so that was kind of awesome. It still pops up used on Amazon sometimes, and that’s awesome too. I’m not too mad at myself for being 21 and putting something into print, but I don’t like to think too much about it.
And I’m thankful I didn’t grow up with a facebook.
And I’m never writing another novel.
And jeeze louise, my arms are SO skinny.