Down from the door where it began...

I take comfort in imagining that all writers, even the great old ones, occasionally feel like I feel today. I am on the verge of sending my first submission out for consideration to the wild world of publication. This should be a happy time for me, a milestone on my way down a new and exciting path, but it isn’t. Instead I stand in the shadow of Vonnegut, King, Bester, Rushdie, and Orwell and feel a hideous surge of shame at the humble work I’ve cobbled together so far. Will I drop this sucker in the mail? Absolutely. I’ve put too much juice into it to turn back now. Still, I can’t help but fret over the fact that I am swimming in unfamiliar waters surrounded by some very big fish. The world I know is one of politics, paper, and numbers. Academia and the austere reaches of the business and government affairs are the only worlds I know. Every step I take toward writing fiction is a step away from the comfort of home, and adventures do make one late for dinner. I might as well get used to the idea, when a wizard comes calling there’s just no getting the bastard to leave.

More to come.