raybear | Quietly whisper while my heart wants to scream

I'm in the midst of a literary journal campaign, which basically means I'm researching publications, both print and online, to send my stories. I've come across a couple times mention of Shelley Jackson and both times I sit and sit and sit and think, "damn I thought for sure she was dead -- are these posthumous stories her estate has sold? She's certainly dead". Then today I saw Shelley Jackson will be at a reading on Friday night in town. And then I finally realized that Shelley Jackson is alive and well and writing (about what, I don't know) and I was thinking of Shirley Jackson.

Which makes me think I should write under the name Raymond Carter, as a marketing ploy to be on the shelf next to Raymond Carver.

Some white guy is sitting in Next Door Co-worker's desk doing data entry and I don't like it. She's having surgery today. As soon as she leaves for good, I'm adjusting the cubicle half-wall so that the window between our desks is gone. I will miss her dearly, but hopefully her absence will inspire me more to get myself out.

I had a dream last night that I received a letter in the mail and I was really looking forward to reading it but got distracted and then woken up before it happened. It feels significant.