I don’t know if this is every writer’s story, or even any writer other than myself, but when I began to think seriously about writing with the possibility of others reading it, and even more, someone paying me actual dollars for it, I made a list if goals. They were mostly in my head, some may have been scribbled,in some long, lost notebook, but In any case, they existed.
I wanted to finish my first novel by twenty-five, have published a few books by thirty. I wanted to publish short erotica. I even had a wish list if editors I wanted to write for, publications I wanted to submit to.
For the most part, if we forget I mentioned the word “novel,” I’ve ticked things off that list one by one until The list was done.
Or so I thought.
I recently found out that an idol of mine, someone whose erotica I’ve been reading , since I was (not old enough to be reading erotica) would be writing the foreword for my first anthology.
And then there it was. The galley in my inbox, and he had spoken so highly of the very collection I had edited that I felt sure he was talking about some other book, some other person, but it was me, it was mine.
And like a kid with a sparkle (and a little tear) in her eye, I realized that yes, dreams still can come true. Even after thirteen years, even at *grumble grumble* years old.
Here is the cover. There is my name. And there, up top, those are his words. Thank you, Cole Riley.