That I will truthfully be able to answer “Yes” to anyone who asks me if any of my stories have been published yet.
I will be able to nod meekly and smile knowingly about how wonderful it feels to see my words in print. I will look down timidly, like Lady Di used to do, and say “Oh, it’s nothing really…”
Then when they leave the room (I’m not quite sure yet where this is all taking place, maybe at some kind of writers’ fair thing in a big castle in Scotland) I’ll start jumping up and down, doing wonky cartwheels, laughing hysterically, then screaming at the top of my voice:
I’M A PUBLISHED AUTHOR, I’M A PUBLISHED AUTHOR…. over and over until some other writerly person enters that fancy high-ceilinged room and I will lower my eyes demurely once more.
This is all highly hypothetical of course. Except the…
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