Though reluctant, even frightened, this intrepid author braved four-lane highways filled with insane drivers and traversed hills and dales to confront (sorry, I mean “meet”) real readers at the Eden Mills Writers Festival. After all, it was Eden: what could go wrong?
After a taste of author paradise in which he and Milksop received unwarranted praise, he cast himself out, worried that he might be offered fruit from some forbidden tree. Or that Milksop would be that fruit being offered to readers, that the author was actually the serpent in that story, after all, birthing all sorts of misery into the world.
Dear Milksop readers, my apologies! 
(A huge thanks to those who stopped by and to my publisher Alanna Rusnak of Chicken House Press for supporting Milksop.)
