Well, that was an interesting time

Hi! Welcome back! I sure as heck didn't mean to be gone for so long, but I had one problem get thrown at me, then another, then one hit my wife and I and knocked us both down for a bit.

Our most recent addition to the household, Diamond, hadn't been feeling good for a while. I take her outside at night because I'm up later than Claudia, and seeing a fifty-pound dog gorge herself on grass, then throw it all back up right in front of me was one of those moments I need to use in a story. I only hope I can capture it well enough to make all you poor readers feel it as intimately as I did. I didn't throw up, but I'm glad I hadn't recently eaten.

But one day her stomach got really hard, and my wife got home, found a 24 hr vet, and loaded her up in the car. A friend of ours went along to help hold Diamond, and Diamond showed her gratitude by puking all over her. I don't think Claudia and I are going to be living that one down anytime soon.

The vet was closed, despite what their website says, and after some more hunting around (and dropping our friend off to take a shower), we found one and got the bad news. Diamond's stomach was twisted, and she needed surgery right then. Over four thousand dollars worth of surgery.

We don't have that kind of money sitting around waiting for us to give it a call and ask it to come over. So we had to break down and apply for a line of credit, over the phone, and talking to a machine. I really, really, really hate credit cards, and so does Claudia. We buy what we need or want with money that we have, and save up for or do without something if need be. Credit cards have their uses, I know, but (my opinion, of course) they use the holder more than he or she uses it.

But we got it, racked up more debt than either of us had possessed in a long time, and handed our dog over to the vet. Surgery went well, and after a few days of observation, we brought her home with a doped-up smile on her face and a scar full of staples that went the whole length of her underside. The staples just came out Friday.

So I've been coming home on my lunch hour to let her out of her crate (cage) and allow her to stretch her legs for a little while, then locking her up and going back. Claudia has been giving her extra TLC before and after work, and we've both been taking turns sleeping with her on a futon to be there in case she had problems.

I never knew a dog could snore. Did you?

I've still been writing this time, but not at the same pace or with the same zeal. Knowing you suddenly owe that much puts a new light on little things like a cantankerous refrigerator or a headlight that's out. It's worth it though, especially every time Diamond smiles, runs up to get affection, or thwaks the floor with her tail because she's wagging it and she's also too lazy to get up. It's worth it.

Then, good news. I got paid for Dirty. The check arrived, and I sprained my lips from grinning and bruised both ears because I did it so fast and wide. I got paid. I'm in print, and I got paid. Words? What words? This is emoting and floating and running down the street shouting 'Eureka!' I got paid.

Did it cover the vet? Oh heck no. It'll put a scratch in the bill, is all. But I got paid. If I drop dead tomorrow, I'll be talking about it to the valkyrie who picks me up or the ferryman who gives me a ride. No one ever actually came out and told me that I wouldn't make money from this, but a look that lets you know someone thinks it's just an indulgent fantasy, especially from someone close to you, sticks, and not in a good way. I ended up divorcing the person who gave me that look.

But I got paid. For writing.

I am going to be published

I got the e-mail last Monday. Actually I got one before that, asking for a bio. That set a nerve in the center of my brain twitching and made all the tiny bones inside my ear canal vibrate. But I didn't want to say anything in case things fell through. It's on.

It still doesn't feel real. I've seen the table of contents for the book, and my name is right there alongside some pretty distinguished company. But some unhelpful voice in my head keeps whispering, “That doesn't mean anything. It's just some words typed into a file and then that file was posted. What if you go around claiming you're going to be in this book, and then Godzilla wades ashore and destroys the city where the publisher lives? You're going to look pretty silly, aren't you?”

What, the voices in your head are logical?

Part of this lurking dread comes from a decision I made a while back. I didn't want to be one of those people who go around claiming to be a writer when in reality they hardly ever put words on a page, or who blogs endlessly and expects that to count. When 'I am a writer' is a functional reality, I will write more often than I don't, and send those words off to a publisher. Those publishers will send money back, and I will spend that money. I don't plan to quit my job just yet, but if I can make enough money throwing nightmares and daydreams at people, I'm not going to keep moving boxes and wire in a warehouse where it gets to be a hundred degrees during the summer. I've introduced myself as 'a writer with a day job' once or twice, but that's a placeholder. If I were to smile at someone and say, 'Hi. I'm Stephen Pope, and I work a forty-hour week at a regular job and then come home and alternate between pounding on a word file and walking around muttering to myself,' I might be a bit more honest, but I'm going to get even more funny looks from the people around me than I do now.

The anthology is called Handsome Devil: Tales of Sin and Seduction, and it's due out in January from Prime Books. My piece, Dirty, involves a young girl coming of age while living in a Civil War-era house who hates the new boarder that her mom has taken up with. If you think you can guess where the story goes, I would say you might be on track. But this track is longer and more twisted than you can expect, even if you've been around a few tracks before.

In a way, it's probably a good thing that this doesn't feel real yet, a very good thing. Every time I think about it and make myself believe that it's actually happening I start giggling like Jack Nicholson's version of the joker. I creep people out enough as it is.

I'm not going to stop writing.