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Drew Burk — The chapbooks, the fiction, the poetry, the issue...


Hi. It's good to see you again.

I'm taking a short break from the weekly fiction—we're still doing the weekly poetry, that is, the poetry people are doing the weekly poetry—while I continue the post-LIT cleanup and reorganization of Spork Central. Also, the weekly bit's gonna feature the pieces from Spork 9.1 for a while, so the logistics of that, the how much for one place—do I put the whole thing here, or do I put a part of it here and then you can follow, if you choose, on over to the regular Sporkplace and see the rest (again, and as always, the full text of the issue goes up online concurrent with the issue), or both or what?—and how does the formatting really, really impact the apprehension of the intention? I'm wrestling, is what I'm saying.


Beachy-QuickGo, if you haven't, and notice that our chapbook series is in full swing. Notice also that there's not a photo of Zachary's book, and that's because while I've cut the color block with my damn hands, we still don't have the engraved plate. These things take time, these things always tend to take so much longer than you anticipate (and we've been practicing, we've been anticipating longer and longer) but in the end, these things they do get done. The plate's been etched, the etched plate's been mounted—I've touched the plate, I've seen it, and so I know it exists, and I know with my hands and my eyes in what state it exists—and the word is that Monday morning, Monday September 30 is when I'll have the thing, the actual thing as a whole and new part of my reality. The insides are done, the spines are done (now with WOOD!, which I may explain later), they wait only for the cover, which should happen tomorrow. The printing part, I mean. Follow that with some waiting, then the next day some construction—weather permitting—of covers, which may or may not be immediately followed by the marriage of inside to outside. The day after that we introduce the books to E. Sander Monson, who makes everything better, makes things right, makes them smooth, makes them flush.

Zachary Schomburg's chapbook, "From The Fjords" is the last of the poetry chapbooks for 2010. We'll be finishing out the year with two small fiction books. I don't know that they qualify as chapbooks, instead they're short fiction books that look like the poetry chapbooks, except they're thicker and they're not filled with poetry. I'm unclear what chapbook means, to me. I'm clear on chapbook's many meanings, and I'm not sure what I think of the word. So we're doing small, beautiful, books of fiction to finish out the year, and then in 2011 we're doing a whole bunch more, of everything. (The RULE here, now, is we don't talk about a thing with any real specificity until that thing exists enough to talk about it... because things happen, you know... shit breaks, manuscripts get screwed up or completely altered rather than proofed and then that causes things to happen, whole and entire cascades of things both unforeseen and terrible, and so we're a terse and quiet bunch. Sometimes.)


We have, just so you know, only TWO copies left of the version of Spork 9.1 we made for the release party. They represent the absolute last time we're doing covers like that (unless, of course, we decide to do it again, but it doesn't feel likely), so if you're interested in having a version that makes you cooler than everyone else, that gives you a prop to brandish while you lie and claim that you were there at the event pictured below, this is kinda your last chance. Or, if you were there, but the broken ATM thwarted you, then you too have this last opportunity. Orders have shipped, save for the special versions which are still being constructed—you don't know this, you lucky folk, but you got upgraded and are getting a better book than you ordered—and the final version is in production and will be appearing in stores soon, so very soon (Kevin, just so you know, I'm making the ones that go to you a little special, a little better, since you've always been so good to us).


Jake leaves us—damn fucking Fulbright—for Lithuania tomorrow. We try to be happy for him, but we like having him here. He'll still be Spork, he's not leaving us completely, just leaving us physically. So hey, Jake, fuck you. And thanks and holy crap we're going to miss you. Go be Baltic, go be Slavic, go be awesome. We're sad and angry and happy for you and can't get our words straight, which is why we keep punching you then not answering our phones later.