that's paris anthology

My friends, it's February 2nd, the street date for my publishing DEBUT in That's Paris: An Anthology of Life, Love and Sarcasm in Paris.

My words just dropped on the STREET.

My Amazon author page is POPULATED.

My face is sore from smiling like a punk ass WRITER.

Have I ever been to Paris? NO. Does it matter? I HOPE NOT. I still crafted a tiny tale about wheat, my defective guts and Parisian possibilities. 


woooooooooord up

woooooooooord up

Published author. Brooke Takhar, Esquire. I'm about to blow up this life that I know and make some strict demands that only a PUBLISHED AUTHOR could dare.

I'm never again walking and eating. That's for people in a messy rush. Not published authors.

I'm never again going to fumble to find the end of a roll of tape. 

I've washed my last dish. 

I'm not eating cold pre-made sushi. Fuck that texture.

I'm never again pulling every single item of clothing we own right-side-in before it gets laundered.

I'm not letting people merge in front of me when I'm in a hurry.

If you have 3 items and I have 133 items, I will make eye contact with you and just start loading my shit on the conveyor belt at WalMart because: first. I loped this mega store and lapped your ass and I have shared enough random kindness in this life, so as a published author still actively seeking deals on bananas and toilet paper, I'm going first.

I can't vouch for the other (much more talented and graceful) writers in this anthology. They might stay down to earth and humble. Follow them on Twitter and confront them at weird times. You'll see their true colours. 

What I do know, all crazy spouting aside, is that Velvet Morning Press pulled together a fine collection of work and then decided to give all the author profits to a really cool charity called Room to Read. So, even if you hate my guts and hate my writing, you should still totally support this project and feel 87% better about yourself in the process.

If you send me a picture of you with the book or your face weirdly backlit by a Kindle screen, I might even cry. Even published authors, underneath their esteemed crunchy outer shells, have feelings too. God.