Came back from Italy this morning, ore from the coach ride and nursing a hefty bout of bronchitis, but delighted by the trip. We expected Florence to be a wonderful city, and now we know Bologn is one, too. But I still find it hard to sum up a whole trip on the very day of the arrival; it’s like talking about a book you’ve just read when the details are still churning in your head. So I’ll tell you about it later.
What I do want to talk about now is what happened when I finally sat in my armchair, with my computer, determined to sit back and give my lungs a break. I was e-mailing a friend about a story of his, and then I reflected that it had been a month since Daily Science Fiction send me that “hold” note for my story, and it wouldn’t be the first time I miss n important e-mail because I’ve never done a thing to keep my e-mail box organised.
Well, I had indeed missed an important e-mail while I was busy trying not to cough a lung out and admiring Bologn. And so because I gave away the punchline in the title and there’s no point in dragging that story along: I’ve just received my first short story acceptance ever!
This makes me happy. More than happy: I’ve spent the past few years getting increasingly convinced that there was something wrong with my ability to communicate what I find meaningful with an audience. I keep writing things that come from deep down in my guts and mean the world to me, and get responses ranging from mild interest to confusion. Rejection letter after rejection letter, “that was close, but” after “we loved it, but”, discouragement was starting to build up.
Now one sale is a tiny success, but I don’t care. It’s a reason for optimism, and that’s especially good in a time when work is heavy and writing sparse.