You know, Omens. Portents.
It's too easy to want something so badly that you tease meaning out of chaos and call it a harbinger of its fulfilment.
Tripe. Clearly.
The sound of a letter hitting the doormat is a rarely heard in my house; I deal with everything electronically these days. Oh sure, I get junk mail, but that sounds different.
This has a more satisfying thud.
I put down my tea and shuffle down the hallway towards the front door. As I glance at the letter, I immediately know what it is.
Three weeks ago, I'm choosing one of my blog entries to submit for an anthology that's being published later this year. I find the choice difficult for two reasons. Firstly, I'm rather proud of them all, but second - and more important - I haven't go the faintest clue what will go down well with a publisher.
Eventually, I decide to submit a tidy and typically offbeat entry called A Disconcerting Little Tune which I published back in June*. And, with an excited little skip in my mental gait, off it goes via email.
[* You can click the link if you don't recall it.]
Two weeks ago, I receive an upbeat and rather congratulatory mail. They've accepted my blog entry for publication! It's going to be in a nice paperback book in December. I'll see no money for it, of course, but still. I'm being published.
I feel rather giddy as I fill out a pair of contracts. But I notice with some irritation that Wicked East Press are Publishers of Fine Fiction.
Hey, it's a fictional anthology!
Good grief, I know my life is unconventional, but anyone would think that I make this stuff up!
It makes no odds, though; I'm proud that I'll have a tale in the Cup Of Joe - Coffee House Flash Fiction anthology.
I sign and date the contracts and despatch them off to South Carolina.
Back in the now, I examine the envelope on the doormat with an degree of disbelief. I almost invent the word bewildishment to describe my thoughts adequately.

But it's the stamps that make my heart pound.
The stamps are made for me. They are me!
The first thing that goes through my head?
It's a sign! A good omen! A portent of future success!
But I don't believe in signs. Right?
It's a sign!
I'm demanding the resignation of my subconscious.
Indigo
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010