It’d been a long time since I felt excitement as a stomach-oriented thing. I spent all of yesterday toeing the line of giddiness, and then last night alongside a glass of (free!) red and a few poetry readings it all came up good: I’m now a published author in a literary journal! It’s only a very, very short story but the thing about dreams coming true is that that truth can reveal itself gradually, like a Polaroid (read: Instagram on primitive Wifi). Thankyouthankyouthankyou, Burley.
I’m taking a long time to learn that really finalising something and watching it sprout or wither is so much more motivating and rewarding (either way) than piling more half-finished ideas into the hothouse, hoping they’ll bud in my absence.
Genuinely surprising were the responses of people reading my contribution, which doesn’t exactly possess Swarovski-clarity. When people responded immediately to the situations and what my bizarre protagonist was thinking – some even guessed where I’d written the story? – I really felt a bit like the Queen of England firing a sub-machine gun. Or at least like a writer of bizarre really-very-short fiction.
Post-script: there are chalk-pens at Smith’s that, rubbed off a little, look exactly like afterimages. I keep looking down at the keyboard and catch a glow ringing in my periphery, only to realise that it’s a real image. I’m sure something excellent could be done with this.