I Wrote a Book. Nobody Stopped Me.

Fifty-six chapters. Sixty full-page pictures. One hundred and twenty-eight pages, printed the size of a magazine, because the pictures are half the joke and nobody has ever squinted their way to a laugh.

It is called All the Things I Wanted to Say. The subtitle is Some things I did say, and that is the whole joke, because I do say things. I have always said things. Reading the room is a skill I have and decline to use.

What is actually in it

Almost every chapter is one page long. That was a decision, not laziness. A page is exactly long enough to make a point and short enough that you will read one out loud to somebody in the room whether they asked or not. That is the intended use.

Men who do not text back. Family who do not knock. A temper I keep in a drawer next to the batteries. An apology that arrived so late I had already written a chapter about it.

There is a chapter called Autism, because I am. There is a chapter about being gay, although honestly most of them are about men being disappointing, which is adjacent. There are several chapters that could reasonably have been handled privately. Where is the fun in that.

A sample of the contents, so you can calibrate: Brush Your Fucking Teeth. You Get No Bitches. Thankfully, It’s Pink. I Am Anxiety. I’m Too Fucking Nice. Gay Does Not Equal Weak. Do Not Resuscitate. If that list does not tell you whether this book is for you, nothing I write here will.

The pictures are not decoration

Every chapter faces a full-page picture. Sixty of them, all in colour. I made all sixty, and I am in every single one. Sometimes as myself. Sometimes as the person who annoyed me, which felt healthier than naming them.

That is also why the book is the size it is. A joke that lands twice, once in the words and once in the picture, does not work at postage-stamp scale. So it is eight and a half by eleven inches and printed in premium colour throughout, which costs a fortune and was worth it.

Six of the sixty. The rest are in the book, which is rather the point.

What it actually took, since nobody tells you this part

I started this at eight by ten inches and then found out how much bigger Amazon would let me go, so I rebuilt the entire interior at eight and a half by eleven. Late. On purpose. Every one of the sixty pictures had to be re-rendered at the new size.

Then Amazon rejected the whole thing, and the reason was gloriously stupid: there was a placeholder ISBN sitting on the copyright page that never got swapped for the real one. Page two. One line of text. Rejected.

Fixed that. Then the print previewer showed a pale rectangle peeking out from behind the barcode on the back cover, because there was a placeholder box back there too. Fixed that.

Then I waited. Then I waited more, because KDP was backed up and my paperback bounced from In Review to Draft and back again for reasons nobody could explain. The hardcover cleared first. The paperback took a few more days and a conversation with an actual human.

Both are live now. The hardcover is eight and a quarter by eleven, which is the largest hardcover Amazon prints. I checked, twice, because of course I did.

Which one to get

Paperback, $34.99. Eight and a half by eleven, softcover, matte. Get this one if you plan to lend it.

Hardcover, $49.99. Eight and a quarter by eleven, case laminate, matte. Get this one if you want it back.

Same book, same 128 pages, same colour throughout. The only real question is whether you trust your friends.

If you want the pictures, the specs and a proper look at the thing before you commit, that all lives on the book page. Amazon will also show you the opening pages for free through Look Inside, no account needed, if you would rather read a bit first.

There will be more

Book two is already annoying me into existence. Nobody has worked out how to stop me.

You’re welcome.