Recently, a short story I wrote appeared in Spillwords, an online journal whose aim is not to curate selectively, but to present each piece its best light, to its own particular readership–not unlike ONE of the scientific journals where I work.
I first wrote my story, “Poacher,” when I was twenty-two. I’ve always loved it–even though, objectively, I am aware that it’s both an unfashionable and immature work. So, earlier this year, I took it out of the proverbial drawer (actually a folder in Google Drive), brushed it up a bit, and sent it out for consideration at ten or twelve journals–all of which promptly and understandably declined.
It’s no special accomplishment to publish “Poacher” but it feels good to have it out in the world anyway. I wouldn’t write this story today; I don’t even really feel like the person who wrote it. But I like knowing that it’s out there.
Sort of. I also feel bad about it.