On my way home from work today, I stopped off at Barnes and Noble. I
had put in an order a few days ago, and it finally arrived. I walked
in and, after getting distracted in the movies section, headed to the
counter to pick up my books.
My books.
They belong to other people too, of course. Steve Berman's name is
on the covers, where it should be, because he's the one who put out
the call for stories, sifted through what was probably a deluge of
them, and went through the whole process of turning all our crazy
ideas into a book. Richard Bowes's name is on top, followed by Pat
Cadigan. There are others, including Tanith Lee,and 'AND MORE...' at
the end of the list.
I'm part of that 'AND MORE.' I found my name in the table of
contents, and flipped through the book to find 'Dirty.' There it is.
But now I'm reading it on paper that someone else printed, in a mass
of folded and glued paper, that was put together by a professional
printing company. This is my book. There are many like it, but this
one is mine. Be glad you're not in the room with me, because I'm
discovering that I cackle whenever I look at it. Yep, cackle is the
word for it.
So after I post this, I'm going to take a sheet of paper and go
downstairs to watch 'Suspiria.' It's what distracted me as I walked
in the store, and while I watch it, I'll keep rewriting the last
scene in 'In The Dark.' I expect to be cackling while I do it.
That book contains my writing.
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