Inside Out
August 11, 2000
7:15 a.m.
I work with a woman named Felicity. Okay. That's not her real name. But I don't want to name regular folks here (defined as people outside the writing arena), and I don't think I actually know any Felicitys. It just seems best to avoid names. Maybe I'm too sensitive. Maybe it's just me being silly. Heck, folks who understand will probably pick it up anyway. Still. I work with a woman named Felicity. (I don't think she reads this, but if she does, she'll probably swallow her tongue to see she's been named Felicity!) "You have a twisted mind," she said to me yesterday. I looked up from my desk. I could tell she meant that in the most supportive way. She stood in the doorway to my cube with a collection of my stories in her hand. "Why do you say that?" "No one can write a group of stories like this without having a twisted mind." "Is this a good thing?" I asked. Never hurts to confirm these things, you know? "Sure it is."   I'm getting to the point where more and more people know I'm a writer, and more and more people comment upon it in my daily professional life. I have to admit that I cannot help but enjoy the attention. I think all writers are applause addicts (to steal Stephen Leigh's phrase). It's fun, you know? And I work so hard down here in my basement that it's nice to get some sort of intangible reward on the outside. On the other hand ... It's also a bit of a distraction. And it's sometimes just the weirdest feeling. I think that one of the reasons new writers get so tied up in knots when they are told that you're not a writer until you've sold material is that the human community seems to hold writers in a special place, not really a higher place but one that is unique and somehow important. People in that place have a sense of power about them. My writing, my successes as seen by people outside the writing community (and sometimes from inside, too--despite how tiny my successes really are), sometimes put me in that position. I have to say it's very strange. When I'm talking about work, I'm just me. People interact with me in relation to my position in the company, my role, and my approach. But when I become a writer there's this subtle change that comes over the situation, like someone turned on an invisible electric fence floating an inch or so off my skin. People just talk to me differently. I wish I could explain it better. Its like dealing with getting older. I don't feel any different than I did when I was twenty-five. I'm still me. I'm just a guy with a wife and a kid who lives in a pretty nice, average house and cuts the grass every week or two. I'm still the guy that can help but watch Louisville play whatever sport is in season. I'm still the guy who gets the urge to fiddle with code occasionally. But I am not twenty-five anymore. And when the subject of writing comes up among my co-workers, I am not just a normal guy anymore, either. Felicity, however, is not your normal regular person, either. We talked in my cube for a bit as she stood there. Felicity and I developed a good relationship when she worked for the same guy as I do now. We would get together and talk about things in the late parts of the day back then. She was new to the company, and I helped her understand a little of how things work here ... scary thought, isn't it? She had been living in Texas before coming up here. She's raised kids and dealt with parents. She has a pretty direct approach to things that is hard not to respect greatly. As we would talk, she would help me figure out our boss's mindset and motivation. I would help her figure out how to deal with various situations. Okay. They were your basic gripe sessions. So she handed me back my stories yesterday, and we talked a little more. Basic work stuff. No electric fence. You ever notice how sometimes you don't notice things until they're gone? That's when I noticed the electric fence. I noticed it because it wasn't there. Felicity just talked. I was just Ron, a guy she knew who wrote stories. I liked that. Then she turned to go. I think her phone was ringing. But before she left, she pointed to the stories. "You done good." And she walked away. While my cup may not exactly be runnething over today, I would have to say it's at least half full. It took several weeks of e-discussion and general waiting around, but last night I finalized an agreement to sell the reprint rights to a polish translation of A Matter of Pride to sciencefiction.pl. This is a web publication (oddly enough in the polish language), that put out by the same folks that do Nowa Fantastika. Then ... Literally as I was e-mailing the contract back to sciencefiction.pl, I received a note from Christopher Rowe. He's noticed something I was unaware of--that A Gathering of Bones has been given an honorable mention in Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling's Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Have a great day.  Where's the angst? Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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