My brain still performs a melodramatic little swoon (replete with arm draped over brow and Victorian-era couch in readiness underneath) when faced with the idea that someone, somewhere, chose something I wrote out of a collection of others. It gives me hope that I’ll get more words between the covers of a book, like in Bianca’s hoodie pocket above.
(Do those books have my words in them? Oh, no, no. That’s a couple of Hemingways and a Ginsberg, freshly purchased from a stall at our local farmer’s market.)
I’ve updated the Published Works page, as if to prove it to myself.