In Disappearing Ink

Autorentext

The Accidental President is I. Michael Grossman's seventh book. Grossman's six other books run the gamut from poetry to an adult children's book and from fiction to non-fiction.
Articles span similarly diverse topics for Advertising Age, Ergo Solutions magazine, The CLIA Cruise Industry Annual Report, The American Banker, and Plane & Pilot magazine.
Grossman holds a B.A. and M.A. from Michigan State University. He taught English and Journalism at Oakland Community College before leaving academia for what he was told would be "the real world." He created The Science of Your Own Success, a course taught at the New School in Manhattan, then started four businesses including Cruises of Distinction and Office Organix.
"I sold my last two ventures because I had a book to write," says Grossman, referring to his memoir, Shrinkwrapped: my first fifty years on the couch.
Grossman currently runs EBookBakery.com and helps fellow authors self-publish. His own books have been both traditionally published and self-published.
The 'I.' is the author's full first name and is not an abbreviation. "I claim no responsibility for the name though I participated in the birth," quipped Grossman. Michael, his therapist wife Susan and a varying number of four-legged creatures share blessed lives in Rhode Island.

Klappentext

Why This Book is Titled "In Disappearing Ink". Little known poets are lucky to have an audience on open mic nights. On arrival, we pencil our names at the bottom of a yellow pad. The featured poet reads first and then, time allowing, authors on the list head to the podium to pour out a poem and our hearts. Polite applause may follow. There's a flicker in time after such a reading, in the seconds it takes the poet to travel from the podium back to his or her seat, when...kazaam…it's as if the words of the poem vanish…are never heard again. A friend, Tracy Hart, compares it to Buddhists creating a mandala. They may labor in shifts for weeks, moving grains of colored sand to craft magnificent art. But when finished, they wipe the art away...a metaphor that nothing man-made lasts. That reality suggests the title: In Disappearing Ink and the subtitle, poems you can never find when you need them. But it also brings to mind another human reality: the joy anyone who has ever written a poem knows - a pleasure arguably more immediate than writing in any other genre. Since so many try their hand at verse, I'm, betting you know how good it feels when you replace an imperfect with a perfect word; and that sense of pleasure when a jarring phrase is improved by shifting its position in a stanza. Here's to every poet's hours at the keyboard, to the stanzas, to the rhymes created, to the contentment of making, then sharing a poem.