(when you’re a young writer, or maybe they did, you just wouldn’t have listened to them anyway, because you’re a rock & roll star: A random guide made on the go, for other humans that like making books with words. By Andrew H. Kuharevicz)
One: Making a book takes a long time. Years not days or weeks. Like you used to believe when you got your first typewriter and wrote nonstop for a week, making a narrative about your travels down to Saint Pete for three days, one of them stuck in the Atlanta bus terminal, inspired by the totality of an obsession, to be a great American author and nothing else, later to copy edit into a friend’s computer, staying up for three more days in the Florida heat, then believing you’re the second coming of Jack Kerouac and not bothering to justify the paragraphs, or even care to spell correct or any of the professional mumbo jumbo sorta’ things, that a human being who likes words, should do when they’re making a book. Because you already have a *gnarly (when you’ve gone beyond radical, beyond extreme, it’s balls out danger, & or perfection, & or skill or all of that combined) cover that a good friend made and a bunch of words, and so you think the book is good to go, a real classic. But then as y0u get older you find out that the book needs time to grow, just like you, and that the mistakes you find later on negate the finished product, almost entirely. Remember, making books, takes a long time. For example, I’m working on one now, only a hundred and thirty pages, give or take, 41,532 words, and I’ve been working on it for three years. Making books is like gardening. You have to—wait—for the harvest, before you can farm the produce, and still, you have to wait, you have to work, you have to sleep and wake up over and over again, because it takes many steps before you can sell it at the market. Making books takes a long time. Don’t believe the fabricated image. There’s no big bang. Only a slow cook. Thank you for reading. THE END.