then again, they are all mysteries

 Since I started this divergence, this deep dive into the murky depths of small press publishing of staple bound (almost all of them) book of less than 50 pages, I have listed and mentioned and speculated about the poet and the press and the printer and the first recipient of each book. 

Each is unique in its singularity. I have only the single one of each. There is a singular relationship that exists between us all (author/publisher/printer/reader) that, since they are chapbooks,  are never really considered in the same way a novel by an established author from a prestigious publishing house is. 

It began with a book written by a woman who had her daughter stolen at a concert in San Francisco during the 1960s. A tragedy she has never fully recovered from (and how could she, how could any mother?). Some of the books I have written about were by poets and writers who have become well known, sometimes deciding in their own biographies to "forget to mention" the chapbooks that came before their first official books. Their first literary prize. Their first teaching assignments at the major universities that they now hail from. 

My mission or calling (if it is one) is different from the library in Brautigan's The Abortion. These books have all been published, some by the author themselves but all have seen the print of ink. All are physical objects because I do not consider e-texts to be proper books. 

And there are many people to thank for the horde of chapbooks I have now, and someday will pass forward. Daniel Nester, another gentleman from upstate New York, a righteous dude from Iowa City, and others along the way. Along the time. Between the margins. As one will.