Golf, Fish, Pigeonhole

I wrote this week's Soapbox in The Weekly Dig, finally making use of nearly three years' work in a card store.

This also marks my move from wannabe to actual published writer, a momentous occasion that almost didn't happen. I never heard back from the Dig editor after submitting my column which, in my relentless optimism, I interpreted to mean that my writing so repulsed her that she summarily and unceremoniously rejected it without even acknowledging its existence. Thus, I learned of its publication Wednesday morning when I picked up a copy of the Dig on my way to work, where I was immediately distracted by an impending crisis and unable to revel in my glory, such as it was. (Never fear, crisis averted.)

In fact, as of now, I still have not heard from the editor, which I'm sure is how good writer-editor relationships are maintained.

Personally, I'm most pleased that my first publication contains the word "twain." I'm hoping that future columns will include "mayhaps," "posthaste," and the phrase "in a coon's age," though not necessarily all at once. That would be overkill.