I had the simultaneously unsettling and awesome experience of hearing complete strangers (smart ones) read and discuss my story, “Bad Things That Happen To Girls”, on this podcast yesterday. (Is this what being a grown-up writer feels like?) It was part III of what’s been a dreamy little post-Nelligan Prize ride:
Part IV, somewhat unrelatedly, is that Fourteen Hills nominated my end-of-the-world pussy story, “Destroyed Flowers Everywhere“, for a Pushcart Prize. I really respect the editors at 14H, and it means a lot to me that they liked my story enough to give it special mention.
Is it obnoxious to go on about this stuff? I don’t know. (Is it internalized misogyny that causes me to feel ashamed for publicizing good news? Probably.) What I do know is that this is the first time strangers are reading–and being affected–by something born out of my weird and secret little brain. I’ve been writing (and quitting writing) for my whole life, meanwhile inside this fantasy we all have, that someone might care about the things I’m dreaming up. For this second anyway there’s proof (hello, inner accountant) that someone does. I hope I can hold onto this feeling. And fuck it. I’m happy.