A year has passed since I launched (as if by slingshot) the first issue of The Syncopated Times into the world. I may safely say now, since it turned out better than I had any right to expect, that I had no idea what I was getting into when I began. I had no expectation of success—only of getting that one paper to press so I could proceed to the next one. Somehow I was too oblivious to feel the sheer terror that such an act of daring should occasion. I still don’t know how I did it—and how I actually had fun doing it.
So it occurs to me that “publisher” is the first thing I’ve been able to call myself that isn’t modified by the adjective “frustrated.” In the course of my existence, I’ve been a frustrated student, a frustrated lover, a frustrated musician, a frustrated songwriter, a frustrated poet, a frustrated novelist, a frustrated piano technician, a frustrated comedian, a frustrated political activist, and an (occasionally) frustrated radio host. Here I navigate as an editor, publisher, and office factotum with the greatest of ease. There is no one here to help me but there is no one here to thwart me, either.
That being said, I look forward to the day when I can hire an assistant. That won’t be for almost another year. My stipulation is that I want someone who feels the same passion I do about getting this paper just right, owing to the seriousness and
