Wednesday, September 29, 2010

With A Skip In My Mental Gait

I don't believe in signs.

You know, Omens. Portents.

It's too easy to want something so badly that you tease meaning out of chaos and call it a harbinger of its fulfilment.

Tripe. Clearly.

The sound of a letter hitting the doormat is a rarely heard in my house; I deal with everything electronically these days. Oh sure, I get junk mail, but that sounds different.

This has a more satisfying thud.

I put down my tea and shuffle down the hallway towards the front door. As I glance at the letter, I immediately know what it is.

Three weeks ago, I'm choosing one of my blog entries to submit for an anthology that's being published later this year. I find the choice difficult for two reasons. Firstly, I'm rather proud of them all, but second - and more important - I haven't go the faintest clue what will go down well with a publisher.

Eventually, I decide to submit a tidy and typically offbeat entry called A Disconcerting Little Tune which I published back in June*. And, with an excited little skip in my mental gait, off it goes via email.

[* You can click the link if you don't recall it.]

Two weeks ago, I receive an upbeat and rather congratulatory mail. They've accepted my blog entry for publication! It's going to be in a nice paperback book in December. I'll see no money for it, of course, but still. I'm being published.

I feel rather giddy as I fill out a pair of contracts. But I notice with some irritation that Wicked East Press are Publishers of Fine Fiction.

Hey, it's a fictional anthology!

Good grief, I know my life is unconventional, but anyone would think that I make this stuff up!

It makes no odds, though; I'm proud that I'll have a tale in the Cup Of Joe - Coffee House Flash Fiction anthology.

I sign and date the contracts and despatch them off to South Carolina.

Back in the now, I examine the envelope on the doormat with an degree of disbelief. I almost invent the word bewildishment to describe my thoughts adequately.

Tailor-made for RothThe lovely handwritten address draws the eye, and the bulge of my folded contract inside urges my spirit do a touchdown shuffle.

But it's the stamps that make my heart pound.

The stamps are made for me. They are me!

The first thing that goes through my head?

It's a sign! A good omen! A portent of future success!

But I don't believe in signs. Right?

It's a sign!

I'm demanding the resignation of my subconscious.


This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010