Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Today's the Day!

Well, this is it, everybody!

As of today, Ugly Stick is OFFICIALLY a published novel!!!!!! I'm excited, nervous, and delighted all at once. It's like the first day of school times a hundred!

(Yes, I was one of those kids who was always delighted by the first day of school. Shocker.)

As promised in my last blog post, I have some EXCLUSIVE information about obtaining your own copy of Ugly Stick. The Kindle e-book, priced at $3.99, is available for immediate download at Amazon, and the paperback version is also available at ($11.99 list price).


You can visit Ugly Stick's CreateSpace page here. Enter the code "64AHALV9" at checkout to receive a $2 discount on the list price, putting Ugly Stick in your hands for only $9.99!

I'm going to post some writerly reflections on this whole process in the days to come, but for now I will simply leave you with "The Author to Her Book," a poem by the fascinating Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672). I've always liked this poem and have grown to appreciate it more deeply in recent months (it's like she knew the Internet was coming one day!).

Thanks so much for your interest, and HAPPY READING!!!


Anne Bradstreet

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,

Who after birth did'st by my side remain,

Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun cloth, i' th' house I find.
In this array, 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam.
In critic's hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door. 

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