When I saw the cover of almost-out Issue 4 of Armchair/Shotgun, I gasped. Because it’s beautiful. It’s everything I want out of a cover of a magazine, including a mouse inside of a bottle and my name.
No, really. Mice have an inordinately high amount of nostalgic and sentimental value to me. And, MY NAME. ON THE COVER. I never consciously thought about it, but now that it’s happening, it feels like one of my literary and creative aspirations has been attained.
Before I hit puberty, I accidentally became the caretaker of about 3492 pet mice. They taught me about sex. They taught me about squeaky wheels and smelly wood chips. And then, they taught me about death. Because all 3492 of them died. The last two of large cancerous tumors that would seemingly appear on their bodies overnight. Just as they had once appeared as tiny, eyeless pink things in a mound of other tiny, eyeless pink things next to the food dish.
I guess I bring it up because, I didn’t know much of anything during that time. But even then, I knew writing was important to me. And I felt like a writer. So this cover, with my writing inside, and my name on the outside (along with a mouse), makes me feel a lot. It makes me feel good. And hopeful. And excited. And like a writer.
Thank you, Armchair/Shotgun. Can’t wait to hold this thing.
GO SEE ARMCHAIR/SHOTGUN THIS COMING SUNDAY AT THE BROOKLYN BOOK FESTIVAL!!!! They will have typewriters and copies of ISSUE 4 FEATURING MY NAME. It’s too much. It’s just enough. Go get it on Sunday, September 22nd, Brooklyn Borough Hall, TABLE 22! Get info straight from Armchair/Shotgun HERE.