In Canada, as in Ireland, books seem to be a bigger deal than in my neck of the US of A. Granted I live in northern Wisconsin where fishing, hunting, logging, and supposedly outdoor sports like hockey and football more effectively captivate the interest of the general population. Here in the Hamilton/Toronto market (fifth largest market in North America, I'm told) there isn't a lot of hunting going on. (Unless you're stalking rival gang members.) There are a lot of bookstores though. Walking around "Fat City" (as some Canadians call it) tiny bookstore-fronts regularly leap out of the confusing glut of small shops lining both sides of every street and proclaims a sale on this or that title. In fact, right next door to my current domicile, resides one Bryan Prince, whose bookstore in Hamilton was benkighted with the honor of "Best Bookstore in Canada" just last year. Looking back on my transistion from logger to writer to publisher, reget has a way of infusing my body. In the land where trees outnumber humans by a gazillion to one (more or less) I chose to find life in publishing. If I'd been born in Toronto would I have taken to logging? Not likely.