Someone I know just got published. It’s actually (I think) quite a good story, and you can read it here, at the latest issue of On the Premises.
I think this is teriffic for her, and I am happy to pass along good things I have heard people say about it. And it’s paid-published, which I suspect adds an extra element of awesome to the whole thing.
I can’t even feel properly jealous, and someone I’m writing with said something that had me figure out why. I’m not jealous because I’m not in the same situation.
Because Rachel Verkade? She actually finishes her stories. And then she sends them out.
If I did that, I could feel jealous. As it stands, I read her stuff. And the things some of my friends write. And I follow the people I know about who are getting their stories out, or getting a collection out, and I just look at the progress they are making, and I think…
I don’t know what I think, actually. It’s not very detailed or coherent, it’s sort of a slow sad wishing that I was there.
That I was focussed enough to try to get there.
What the hell am I doing with my life and my time, anyway?