I got my first Locus magazine today.  It’s been a long time coming because I didn’t want to start the subscription until we would be settled in one address for awhile. 

The read has been great, and worth the wait, but I find I am incapable of reading about other writer/authors without constantly drawing conclusions and making comparisons to my own life.  What’s especially difficult to overlook is authors who began publishing younger than me.  I don’t know why that would matter so much, but it always seems to bite.

Me: Ah, look.  He published his first short story at twenty-three, and a novel at twenty-nine.

Fate: Alright, you’ve wasted at least five years here- I’m gonna have to deduct that from your total!

Me: But, wait!  I can live longer- I promise.  I’ll live to be Ninety-eight and I’ll produce a book every year!

Fate: Well . . . okay.  But remember, a new writer is born every year and most will publish before they cut their wisdom teeth.

Me: Okay.  I’ll make it to 124.  I’ll eat nothing but green tea, wash my dentures every day, and write from my wheelchair, but I’ll get the books written.