Andrea MacPherson

I got some early copies of Away last week, so that I might have some with me for a reading at the Pacific Festival of the Book in Victoria.  It arrived in a non-descript cardboard box, a little dented and very well taped.  It sat on the kitchen counter, looking at me.  Away is my fourth book, and I keep waiting for the whole process to become blase – seeing the book for the first time, holding it in your hand, seeing it in a bookstore.  All that.  I’m still waiting.

It was all excitement and rosy cheeks.  I held the first copies in my hands after only slightly struggling with tape and scissors, bordering on giddy.  It’s always something to see a new book.  The concept of the abstract to the tangible applies here: they were just words in my notebook, on my laptop, in my head, and now they are made concrete.  I flipped through the collection, sometimes surprised by the words.  Publishing is a long process; I had forgotten some of the lines, some of the images, and at times was actually surprised by what I read.  The author and audience meet.

Away has turned out beautifully.  I couldn’t be happier with the final product, with my publisher, or with the excitement that still comes in a tattered old box.