Chapped

Everyone I know is publishing a chapbook, so why not me? Maybe it's because I don't have any material. But if I had to scrape the bottom of my shoe and say, hey world, buy this thing that's not a blog, I think my chapbook would be an "experimental," "edgy," "edge of yer seat, wild ride" kinda chapbook (artistic misspellings, no extra cost!)

What would I write about? See that's the beauty. I'll just flip through the dictionary, pick random words and string 'em together. Not quite poetry, not quite prose, but all sorts of symbolic. I'll send out limited edition, numbered, lettered, hand-sewn, first edition, top rate pamphlets and I'll pressure you into jumping on the bandwagon, so at parties later you can smile smug and say, oh yes, I knew her back when she kept that silly blog. She really came into it then, and by it, I mean her voice, vision, style, you name it. I'll become a brand, a veritable chapbook whore, and instead of cards, I'll send chapbooks to everyone on my Christmas list.

And isn't the word "chapbook" grand? For me, it evokes mental pictures of grizzly hardcovers sauntering about, bow-legged, leather fringe hanging from their thighs, swinging lassos and mending fences on the prairie.

Hell, who am I kidding? I'm pickled green with envy.