There are few joys greater than seeing your shit in print. That's a rule + I'm sticking to it, man. So you can imagine how giddy I was today when I walked into the Hollywood Borders + there was my story featured in Fiction # 56, my name being the first name on the front cover. It was a pure, inexplicable + dirty little joy. Even better, I had the privilege of sharing journal space with one of my favorite Japanese authors, Murakami Ryū (author of Almost Transparent Blue, Coin Locker Babies, "Tokyo Decadence", among others). I may get 100 rejections this year (like last year). I may--shudder at the point--never publish BLANK in its current form. I may not become the literary superstar I secretly hope/believe I am. I may not ever become a household name--which writers are these days? I may not even get the privilege to live in relative obscurity, teaching fiction workshops to aspiring delusional writers inside pretty-looking college seminar rooms. Who the fuck knows how it all works anyway?

But what I do know, what I know for sure, is that this moment, this perfect little moment is mine. And though it can never last, I know that in this tiny moment, I just published a chapter from my first novel in an awesome literary journal that you can buy pretty much in almost any Borders in America. And that makes me wanna cry for all the years no one could find me.