The last couple of months have been like going to the disco when I was a twenty-nothing: working up the nerve to ask women to dance, earning a good share of rejections for every hustle. The only difference is I like writing so much more than I ever liked the relentless music, line dances,  shiny polyester, and silly heels.

Recently the Silk Road Review rejected poetry, Zoetrope rejected a short story with a great example of a laser-printed rejection form on cardstock, complete with smudged ink and my name and the title of my short story penned in at the proper line, and Collaboraction of Chicago rejected my short play – but with an encouraging note to please resubmit again.

Now I ask you, who could have resisted adorable me in polyester and platforms? And who can resist my adorable writing?