Okay. I’m a professional writer who grew up reading mysteries, but…I’m basically genreless, I’ve never been nominated for an Edgar Award, and I don’t know very many crime writers.
All of which makes me feel like a little kid again when it sinks in that 1) I have a story in the new Mystery Writers of America anthology Ice Cold, whose stories all deal in different ways with the Cold War; 2) I’ve been invited to the launch party on Tuesday, April 29 at the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, part of a slate of “Edgar Week Events”; and 3) I might get to see inspiring writiers like Jeffrey Deaver, Laura Lippman, Sara Paretsky, T. Jefferson Parker, and Joseph Finder–all of whom have stories in the collection as well–at the party.
There’s something to be said about waiting till you’re forty-nine to see your first pieces of fiction published (for me, the short stories “Liminal” in Baltimore Noir and “Dead Man” in Hard Boiled Brooklyn, both in 2006): You keenly appreciate what you’ve got.
Still, this is the kind of thing I used to dream about during all those years I was writing fiction that didn’t get published, and it still feels surreal. Am I really here? If I’m not, please don’t wake me up.