I figured my genre editors would have done a lot more toward weeding out the close but can’t prints, the page limit pushers, and the nice but not necessary. I figured I’d be here for an hour or two confirming my editor’s choices, enjoying their complete explanations and thorough vetting. I figured I’d be in bed by now, sleeping, escaping the ol’ shrieking back ache.
I figured a whole fantastic fuckton of falsely.
So pardon my personal moment of self-determinedly well earned crowing at my own success, but I’ve just spent a batty bleeding eight hours making the final selections for the lit journal. I think I’ve official earned my gold colored, plastic, quill pen patterned, pin. I’ve bloody well literally been at the computer since twenty-hundred yesterday working on this damned thing.
Feel free to admire my dedication. You’d be right to. And those who’ll follow the rules of propriety and figuratively doff their caps to my triumphant feat, and even those who scoff and mutter something along the lines of “I could’ve done that,” will only be all the more impressed when I relate the full happenstance, to which I alluded previously, of this year’s journal’s particularly personal frustrations.
Farewell and adieu, it’s time to get three hours of sleep before I have to go in and actually present my decisions.