where are my books?

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Being an author is an odd odd sort of avocation. You spend years and years, working in private: researching, reading, thinking, scribbling, marking through and scribbling yet again. Comma in, comma out. Paragraph in, paragraph out.

Only your loved ones know the long hours of isolation And then, somehow, the gods smile on you and you finish and deliver your manuscript to the publisher. At that point, it no longer is a private affair, the pace quickens, there's editing, design, proof approvals, scheduling, deadlines, and before too long your books are out there, thousands of them, strewn about like autumn leaves in the wind.

You often find yourself wondering: Where do they go? Have they found a good home? Are they languishing in a used bookstore? (An author's nightmare.)

To that end, if you have a copy of one of my books, send me a photo and sate my curiosity. Here's one that found its way to the Big Apple, the city that never sleeps.



Bill Benish at the subway station very close to his apartment in uptown New York City. (This is very appropriate since in my book, Jim and Nancy Tanner saw the beginning of 1941 come in at Times Square watching the ball drop.)

Thanks, Bill.

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