Proofs…

Yes, that’s right, proofs. 

(And no, this is not a parody of that very gripping Dick Francis thriller…)

Proofs–bound, in print, the book-shaped thingie with the cover slapped on which is given to the author for that final, final look-see and edit.  

Which is to say, mine of May 1812 were delivered.  And I have now held the thing in my hands. 

I have felt the weight of the paper.  I have seen the dedication page and felt humbled because it is true.  I have seen how the book is broken into segments by Wyatt’s poem, just as I always intended, or as it fell out because that’s what happened and I had nothing to do with it. 

I have looked and looked at the exquisite work of the cover artist, at her inspired blending of the Grand Chiffre (yes, that is a page from Scoville’s actual notebook which she used there) and the portrait, and given thanks for her vision, skill and artistry.

I have read Myddelton’s words on the page and they look splendid there. 

I am rejoicing and quiet.

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This entry was posted in Writing.

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