It never gets old, getting the good news from a literary journal. I got two rejections yesterday, just hours apart, and some days, you’re convinced you just ain’t got it. Your words are unmolded hunks of chalk, sand in the hand, a yard full of quickly scattering smoke from the barbecue. But a yes will go a long way. Somebody likes me, you think, and suddenly Friday afternoon’s other work doesn’t seem so important at all.
Anyway, River Teeth. In their next issue.