Tomorrow,

70 degrees and over cast. I’ll wear my jean jacket and I’ll look forward to eating oysters on the half shell. And he will wear denim shorts and tall black socks. And we’ll talk about fires and books and mineral water. And we’ll quote Byron and try to remember our plans, and then we’ll go to an event. And the thing about these events is that it is the drinks after that really bring the people together.

When writer’s talk to each other, they maintain eye contact. Sometimes for several hours. It’s alarming.

Bring Chapstick.

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This is the story

of the writer who wrote a book. And then submitted that book. And that book was accepted. And now that book has a home. A place of it’s own. The writer is so happy. Happy for her book. And also just plain happy. She keeps laughing deliriously and trying new food. Chicken feet and satan. And baked oysters. And yellow beets covered in sea salt and burnt sugar and dark coffee grounds.

This is the story where you say out loud to yourself

someday I will be published

and today is that day.

Oh my fucking god.

Yes.

Noemi Press

This is the story

of the paper on the calendar and the network on the phone and the hair in the sink and the cookies in the fridge and the grounds on the counter and the beer on the porch and the bacon in the oven and the crumbs in the butter and the hole in the floor and the water on the stove and the dirt in the sheets and the books on the bed and the porn in the kitchen and the radio on the island and the scotch tape on the ceiling.

The writer works from home.

3-11pm.