Since my time as a wee boy, I wrote. And I wrote, and I still write. I might have been published in some middle school collection ages ago, but I can’t remember. Recently, this has bothered me, nagging at me. I’ve got this attachment to getting something published, anything published, anywhere. So I submitted my first novel, even though I think it’s at best a B- hedonistic mess, and got rejected. Just finishing the novel wasn’t enough, I needed to have something of mine appear on paper I didn’t print myself. So I wrote Wings for the pure purpose of getting something published. I then submitted it to the South Bay Writers newsletter.
I submitted it beyond the deadline for inclusion into the February Newsletter, and started working on my next story Yellow, and continue work on my novel. Even so, do you think my past-deadline submission stopped me from ripping open the newsletter I received yesterday? Nope. I skipped through the pages, gleefully looking for my story. I stopped on page 9, paused, and jumped for joy in the kitchen of my little first floor apartment shouting, “I’m published! I’m no longer not-published!” to an audience of my ego and id. The newsletter may only have about 100 readers, but hell, that’s 100 readers who got this on paper. I’m no longer an unpublished author. I’m a real published author!
Next stop, published paid author. Then (or perhaps at the same time) bestselling author.
Comments (2)
Congratulations on being published man! I hope its the first of many. And I hope you get paid for it cause being able to pay your rent is a good thing.
Well done! Will follow your progress.