Some of you who follow my life (Ha! Even my mother doesn't follow my life. And my kids? They don't know I have one.) will recall that I recently was notified that two editions of my books will be going the remaindered route soon. This weekend while shopping (instead of writing in my journal or writing or...well, let's not go into that) I visited two different bookstores that specialized in remainders. One of them was the grungy, shudder-type hole I have remainder nightmares about. But the other was very well-maintained, attractive, and full of the works of big name authors. Hey, books are like everything else. They have a lifespan. Unless we're named Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John, we're almost all going out of print by way of the remaindered bin. If I can end up in a classy bookstore like this place, I'll have no complaints.
Wish I knew the name of the bookstore, but both the places I went were chains and those places all sound alike to me.
Oh. I saw Porkenstein, which I wrote about on August 7, there.