My new business card.

Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields

Just paper

I have spent the past few days alternatively working on my novel and helping out an artist by packaging an unexpected (and humongous) order for her - I've been wrapping hand-made items in the old, soft pages from books. Books - novels - used as wrapping paper.

The irony has not been lost on me. Here, I spent most of my waking time (and most of my sleeping time), working on how to tell this story that is in my head, how to get it down so that it can be printed on paper, and then I walk over and carefully remove pages from old books, de-booking them to use those carefully crafted words as a lining.

When I first took on the project, I was so conflicted. I was young when I learned the Book Rules - never leave it open on its spine, never write in a book (not even in pencil), do not eat or drink while reading (I break that one, but always wipe my salsa-ed fingertips on the couch arm, or the dog). Honor the book. But these books are throw-aways, destined for a mouldery grave. So, I don't know. It looks gorgeous, and it's a sort of recycling, but it's also still against the Rules, isn't it?

It's construction and then deconstruction, and my wrists ache, and my eyes ache and my back aches. It seems only fair. I am using any old book as it's grabbed and passed on to me; I choose only by the paper weight, and by the lack of white space. But when someone unwraps their thing, I am certain they'll look at the print and wonder if those words are meant specifically for them.

I feel morally obligated to tell you I dust, like I did just now, on an as-needed, on demand basis. I noticed a cobweb in the corner of my living room, took off one of my socks and swatted at it.

This is not a dusting anomoly.