I spoke with an old friend at a party Saturday night, and got a very nice compliment. I’d sent him a story a few months back, a Lovecraft homage that I had a feeling he would dig. He told me he’d really enjoyed it, but that his wife had also seen it around and picked it up. He told me she enjoyed it, which was great, but he also told me it had impacted so much that she took a couple of days before she was ready to talk about it.
That’s like crack cocaine to a writer, let me tell you. I’m already hard at work on another story that had been simmering for a while, but seems like it might appeal to similar tastes.
Meanwhile, I’ve had no luck so far finding a market to publish the original story in question. I totally get why a Lovecraftian weird tale might be hard to publish–there are, after all, a lot of people writing them–but this is a really good Lovecraftian weird tale. Or so I’ll believe for the next few days, at least, until my insecure writer’s brain resumes telling me I’m no good.
Exactly like crack cocaine–including the need for a regular fix.