It's about that time the mail arrives. I no longer get excited about the mail, even though I'm expecting a half dozen pieces of good news, or, in some cases, closure.
Still, I can't quite shake that feeling of disappointment each time I open the mail box, fully expecting to find nothing important, and finding just that. Bills, depressing bank statements, or threatening letters by people who want to kill me.
Okay, I made that last part up. But I'm working on it.
I want some closure mail in knowing my wife's taxes are done, and we can proceed with a subsidy request for daycare. We're now at about fourteen weeks (it's supposed to take six, but can take 10-12 weeks for first time filers.)
Closure in knowing that Alia has a birth certificate and we can proceed ordering her a passport.
Good news that I got a story published.
Great news that someone wants to publish my book.
Amazing news that I placed a story competition, albeit the least likely so far.
The only slightly welcome mail over the past months has been the Men's Health Magazine I subscribe to. With some recent contest submissions, I'm apparently now subscribed to three literary journals too, which will match Men's Health in my delight of getting something to read that isn't depressing, then again, have you read some of the stories in the literary journals?
Some stories are just depressing in an alcohilc downward spiral kind of way. Others are depressing because they are so damn good, and I think to myself, can I write like that? Does my story stand a chance beside this one in a competition. No, Damn it! Well, maybe my best story, if I work on it. Speaking of which, time to get cracking.