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.
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.
The 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