I’m an accidental publisher. I’ve got two cars on the driveway and a garage stacked with books. I’m trying to learn about the world of publishing as fast as I can but I’m drowning in sell sheets, ISBN numbers, backorders and other indecipherable terminology from the covert alliance of publishers. Not to mention bubble wrap. I’m up to my ass in bubble wrap.

I wish my mentors Anyda and Muriel were here to help. But of course, they are not and I’m in this alone, unless you count Bonnie who now has the official title of Fulfillment Manager. It means she drags heavy book cartons to the UPS Store.

This isn’t the glamorous Vanity Fair book party kind of publishing, nor is it New York Times Best Seller kind of publishing and it’s certainly not the "Let’s option this for Julia Roberts" kind of publishing.

But it’s the keep-the-legacy-alive kind of publishing and, when I’m not too pooped to notice, I’m honored and delighted.

Anyda Marchant and Muriel Crawford were my friends and mentors. They, along with two other women, started the first great lesbian publishing house in the United States—The Naiad Press, in 1974. And Anyda, writing under the pseudonym Sarah Aldridge wrote lesbian novels when there was almost nothing published to represent lesbian lives and certainly nothing published with a happy ending. Anyda changed all that. Decades of books where the lesbian offed herself or was murdered on the last page were replaced by novels putting strong women into the forefront of history and giving them fabulous, occasionally naughty same-sex relationships as well.

Almost every lesbian author I have met since I stumbled into this business has told me the same thing: the first lesbian books they read were by Sarah Aldridge. "I’d look up ‘lesbian’ in the card catalogues—that tells you how long ago it was— and the first and often only thing I found was ‘Aldridge, Sarah,’" said one very well known lesbian author. "We all started there."

Following their contribution to the 20-year operation of Naiad Press, Anyda and Muriel started A&M Books of Rehoboth Beach. They published the last four of the 14 Sarah Aldridge novels and then took a wild leap of faith and published my collected essays from Letters.

Anyda and Muriel, a couple for nearly 57 years, represented more than half a century in the evolution of lesbian literature and lesbian rights in America. They became a couple the year I was born. Now that took courage.

When Anyda died this past January, just short of age 95, and Muriel, age 92, followed less than five months later, A&M Books became my responsibility.

I was lucky enough to know them, love them, learn from them and agree to try, to the best of my ability, to carry on for them.

Now before you start thinking I’m Ms. Random House, let me explain the realities of a tiny publishing house (or garage in my case). It’s almost impossible to sell enough books to make any money. Not that the books don’t sell. Anyda’s are still selling, and I’m luckier than I ever imagined, with my book into a second printing. That’s a lot of books sold—all over the country, and I am so flattered.

But the distributors, book stores and Amazon.com take such a large cut (I’m not complaining—they get those books out there!) that the publisher is left with just enough money to schlep the next cartons of books to UPS and send them on their way.

Anyda and Muriel never cared about what it cost—their mission was to get the books into print and into the hands of gay and lesbian readers—who often had nothing else to read that related to their lives.

The A&M Books Publishing House operated by me has no such luxury. In fact, operating on a shoestring would be a step up. Which is why I chuckle when I get several e-mail inquiries a week from writers eager to have A&M (that would be me and Bonnie) publish their gay or lesbian novels, self-help books, poetry, short stories and in one case, a children’s book about gay ferrets (really).

We’d love to. Even the ferrets. But until we win Powerball or Hollywood options As I Lay Frying for a major motion picture (that sound you hear is me exhaling, breath not held) all A&M Books can do is be keeper of the flame for the Sarah Aldridge novels.

To that end, in early June, I was headed to Atlanta, Georgia to attend the Golden Crown Literary Society Convention—a giant celebration of lesbian fiction. I was on the road when I got word that Muriel had suffered a stroke. "Don’t rush home," Bonnie and Muriel’s other friends said. "She’d want you to keep going."

I was attending the Convention to accept, for Anyda, the posthumous Trailblazer Award from the Society. This was the second such award given, the first, last year, given to 1960s lesbian pulp fiction writer Ann Bannon. It was Bannon who was to present the award to me for Anyda. I was looking forward to bringing the engraved trophy home to Muriel. Two days later I got word that Muriel had passed away. I was stunned and sad but there was really no sense in doing anything but continuing on at the convention.

In the hotel ballroom, when the award was announced—and when it was noted that not only was it posthumous, but that Anyda’s partner died only two days before, there was an audible buzz of sadness. And then, as I accepted the award for them—for it was truly the two of them responsible for their publishing history, nearly 300 women gave the pair an emotional standing ovation.

I can’t say the moment was bittersweet, for A&M (the women, not the company) had long and wonderful lives, nothing bitter about them. I guess it was just semi-sweet, since I wished they both could have been there to see how well-loved and admired they were.

So now I’m back home, my den is my distribution center, with books piled four feet high and purchase orders, packing tape and the ubiquitous bubble wrap filling every available crevasse.

Along with carrying on the publishing tradition, Bonnie and I, plus a cadre of Anyda and Muriel’s friends, are carrying on a special social tradition as well.

Every evening at 5 p.m., whether they had company on their big front porch or not, Anyda and Muriel would celebrate happy hour. Anyda would walk slowly to the kitchen, pour Dewars Scotch into two cut crystal glasses and bring them both to Muriel for inspection. Muriel would determine which one had a micro milligram more of the golden liquid, taking it for her own—and then she’d sip a tiny bit from each glass before handing it over. As their friend Tom said at Anyda’s memorial service, it was a very intimate and charming tradition.

It lives on in our house, often with the morning coffee and sometimes with martinis. It’s a lovely custom to continue.

So that’s the news from the accidental publisher. Thanks to Anyda and Muriel, in one of their last very generous acts in a life filled with so much generosity, A&M (the publishing company) has the funds for our next release—the sequel to As I Lay Frying, due for publication some time around the end of 2006 or early 2007. I’m a very lucky writer.

So now it’s ten minutes to five. I’ve got to find Bonnie, pour a couple of cocktails and toast to a pair of fabulous women who changed a whole lot of lives. Ours included.

Cheers!