In the end, I didn’t get much writing done yesterday and probably won’t today, though I’ll try. Things happen, and those require a shift in priorities. Part of that shift meant that I needed to reorganize and repack all author copies of the Timothy James Beck books, Cochrane/Lambert novels, the anthologies we’ve edited (or appeared in, sometimes under mysterious pseudonyms 🤣), and of course, the two Becky Cochrane novels. Although one of our publishers gave us only a few author copies, and we had to split those 50/50, the TJB publisher gave each author a better number of complimentary copies–but once Tim moved to Houston, that meant double the number ended up with us. Those, and bound uncorrected proofs, are for authors to give away to reviewers, booksellers, people who are supportive and have promoted us, including family and friends (and of course, the publishers are also providing those to reviewers and to other authors they want cover blurbs from).
It can add up to a lot of books, especially if a book is released in hardcover and trade paperback. Like…eighteen bins of them.
We’ve heard from readers who are thrilled to find any of these books that are out of print, especially if they’re part of TJB’s Manhattan series of five books. If they only knew–SHOOT ME AN EMAIL (becky@beckycochrane.com). I can hook you up. If you ever need a copy of one of the books, or you’d like a set to give to friends, literally if you could cover the postage, they’re yours, both hardcover or trade and mass market paperbacks.
I think we have an ample supply of everything but The Deal. On that one, I have a few of the trade paperbacks because I’ve bought them used when I’ve seen them, and I own maybe four hardcover copies that were part of a now-defunct bookclub that released their own edition. The only person who could pry one of those hardcovers from me would have to be a member of the royal family, and by that, I mean 👑 Elton John and his husband David Furnish.
For years, I’ve tried to replicate my mother’s recipe for fried corn. She gave me directions. She let me watch her do it. She told me the specific kind of fresh corn on the cob I needed to buy and how to prepare it the way she did. I have never found corn sold under that name. And I have never successfully made a batch of corn that tastes like hers. This week was no exception. I mean, the corn was fine, but it wasn’t hers. I’ve searched and tried online recipes. I’ve enjoyed Lynne’s version that she cooks the way her mother did. Even the best fried corn I’ve eaten doesn’t taste like my mother’s. I try this at most every two or three years, so it’s not a big deal, and in one way, my failure amuses me: my mother would like knowing she did something no one else has been able to do. (There are many others; even if she never acknowledged those, I do.)
In the few years before I was laid off from my job because of the pandemic, one of my holiday frustrations was not having the time to address and send Christmas cards to friends and family. I could start the process in December but sometimes didn’t finish it until my March birthday and, one year, even Easter. No more job meant this is one activity I’ve been able to accomplish since 2020 before Christmas. This year might be my earliest ever, partly because we were able to get a family photo in November thanks to Lindsey.
