Yesterday, I sold a story at a pro rate to a very selective magazine. I’d been sending pieces to it since I started in 2017, 21 stories in total. One shortlist, otherwise form declines. I was about to stop sending them work, convinced they’d never take anything of mine, and then they did. I am ecstatic, but mostly don’t feel like it’s real yet.
A writer friend told me that this great, highly coveted story sale on the day before the election was a good omen. I didn’t want to disappoint him by sharing that I had been raised in a culture where there are only bad omens and worse omens, that every instance of joy or victory is to be feared, for typhoons of shit are about to descend to balance out the little sliver of light, because shit is all there is.
I’m distracting myself by watching Step Dave on Amazon Prime. It’s my rebound show while I’m getting over finishing Republic of Doyle, which I was using to get over finishing Psych, which I was using to get over finishing Chuck, which I was using…
How are you doing on this weird Tuesday, blogosphere?