He couldn’t believe it — all the hard work was possibly going to pay off; it seemed that someone who had been employed to start skimming through the slushpiles had come across something of his that he had forgotten about. It was something he had written in that period when he had been unable to afford to print out a second copy and he had sent off the only original that he had out to the publishers. Pitchblende was about someone who had invented a way to enter the paintings which he created — he had turned them into doorways into realms of ideas. His was a book of ideas — one which combined discussion of art with notions of what constituted reality.
The letter he had received said that he had managed to create a piece of science fiction fantasy that was both novel and beautiful and they would like to meet up with him to talk about it. It was somewhat strange to him to recieve this praise for a piece that he could barely remember having written but there was that whole thing about not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Serendipity usually bypassed him — went calling at the next house or street over.
He sat there and Bill looked at the bottle he had gone out and purchased. He had been dry for so long now and he thought about how only this morning that whiskey had been all about commiserating with himself about all the miserable luck he had — now it could be a source of celebration. Sure, he could manage one or two drinks on a day like this when he was looking like getting a big break from some publishing company.
He went to get a glass.
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