They're In the Mail

I was probably 17 the first time I went into the Lake Crystal post office to mail my first manuscript. It was a short story I probably no longer have and don't remember, and I sent it off to several different publications, optimistic choices such as the Paris Review, the Atlantic Monthly (back before they pussied out and became another Washington Post), and the New Yorker. I remember the bemused smile on our local postmaster's face as I handed them over for postage, as if I were a child sending letters to God and/or Santa. And, in a way, I guess I was.

But today. Today, my friends, I went to the Boise post office and mailed five copies of my publishing contract with St. Martin's Press. Signed and initialed, baby. And let me tell you something: not a bad feeling.

Actually, it's two contracts, one for THE SUICIDE COLLECTORS and one for WORMWOOD, NEVADA. Each contract is twelve pages long and relatively clear. Each book will be released in hardcover, so that's cool. I have to supply the dust jacket photo myself, so, since Idaho is Napoleon Dynamite country, I'm going to track down Deb and get my glamor shots.