Varmints for Kindle.
Here's something curious and personal: I feel pride in this work all out of proportion to its interest to anyone else. I hear a vague music when I read it and feel in my gut that this can become a fine opera with the right music. I've done my job as librettist, a very decent job indeed. Moreover, this is a dark and important work about American history. Ah, such are the delusions of a writer with a healthy ego! Yet I'm quite serious.
What I hope happens is that a young ambitious hungry composer at Portland State or somewhere else sees this, is curious enough to read it, digs it, and writes dynamite music for it. I also hope I'm alive to see this, which probably is asking for too much. The gods owe me nothing. They've already delivered quite in excess of all expectations.
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