Okay, technically, it isn’t a “mistake,” it’s an honor & shit, BUT here’s the shadow side of it. As a writer, especially one centered for most of my years of writing life in poetry, I got extraordinarily lucky. My first novel was accepted by a major NY publisher (HarperCollins) when I was fifty-two.
What’s so fuckin’ “lucky” about that, seeing as how I’d been writing since I was seventeen?
