Today was not the day. Yesterday wasn’t either. Each day, I walk to my mailbox wondering if the package I have waited for is going to be there. I did not realize how long I’ve dreamed of that small brown box, until the day is almost here.
Last August, I submitted a short story to an anthology. I’ve written, off and on, for years; but no one else ever saw much of my work. Sending that little story off into the world felt odd, and vulnerable, and slightly silly.
In January, I received an email that my little story would be published. My heart sang. I skipped around the house. The dog barked. The book comes out in April. My complimentary copy “will arrive in March”. I am so excited to hold it in my hands.
It’s not that I’ve been waiting for that package since August, or since January. I’ve been dreaming of that day at the mailbox since I was young and full of dreams. My name, next to something I’ve written. In a book with two covers and lots of pages in between.
There are so many publishing options now. I could dream of my work published online as an e-book, or self published, or someday on a kindle. All of those are very, very fine options. I write a blog, that I’m thankful you have noticed, and I love it. But this time I want to hold the paper in my hands and smell the ink. I want to ruffle the pages back and forth and check the table of contents and the list of contributors at the end. This is a very short story, in an anthology. But it is mine. It is my start.
So each day, I walk to the mailbox, and wonder what I will find. Then it is up to me what I do next.