Nine years ago today I got the call that my brother had passed away. It seems impossible that it’s been that long. So much of what I do every day is because of him, that sometimes I’m sure he must still be a phone call away. The truth that he’s not hurts at the most unexpected times.
I wouldn’t be a writer if it wasn’t for him and this blog certainly wouldn’t be here. Writing was his dream; I just kind of stumbled along after him. And so here we are, nine years later: I’ve self-published two novels. I’ve received my master’s degree. I’ve sold two short stories to professionally paying markets. I’ve sold three novellas to small presses. I currently have eleven stories out on submission. I have three very exciting works in progress, and a whole trunk full of what I learned along the way. I hope he’d be proud of me. And I hope he’d enjoy my stories. I sure as hell know he’d be trying to destroy science fiction, and everything else, right alongside me.
Continuing what I did last year to commemorate the impact he had on my life, I’ve decided to pull a story out of the trunk that has sentimental value to me and share it with the world. This year’s story is called The Long Wait. If there was a dedication page for this story it would read like this: For my Dad, who encouraged me in ways I’m still trying to understand. I hope you enjoy it.
Love you Goobs. Now and always.