I made my first fiction sale! Someone has decided to offer me money in exchange for stories I made up in my head!
Moreover, I will be paid at a rate of five cents per word, which is a professional rate! (Actually it's semi-pro at this point, since the the pro rate nudged up to six cents per word earlier this year, but let's not get hung up on details.)
My nom-de-real-life has been getting paid to write for years, but she only does boring nonfiction pieces that I can promise you've never heard of. Her writing is functional enough, if that's your sort of thing, but she just doesn't have the artistry it takes to succeed as a storyteller.
I in contrast have now sold three stories, all to the same market. "Market" is the word you use when you want to say "magazine" without revealing yourself as a novice. I will divulge the name of the maga--of the market when the stories go live, at which point you’ll be able to read them online for free. For now, all you need to know is that the stories are unusually short, which is to say, they are one hundred words apiece. (To give you perspective, this paragraph is 93 words long.)
In other writing news, I am still revising my debut novel. I'll be able to share some updates on it soon, I hope. Which is what I said this time last month. At any rate, take a look at this inscription, and please share my sense of indignation: my attention-seeking nom-de-real-life, she of the uninspired storytelling and workmanlike prose, wheedled her way into getting an inscription that by all rights should be mine. The author only signed it to her out of pity, I'm sure of it.