Today has been kind of a shit day. As in a "in all my years as a doctor, that's the most impressively herniated disc I've ever seen" kind of day. (Not my disc, mind you, but Kat's. If it was my back that was all messed up, I'd be on the living room floor, demanding IV narcotics and crying like a tiny litte girl. Katrina went back to work, and followed that up with a little grocery shopping. Then she tried to carry the goddamn bags. And she actually is a tiny little girl. Maybe people should start saying "I cried like a scrawny, goateed crime writer." But I digress.) But you know what makes a shit day better? Money.
More specifically, money for writing. See, the mail today (which Katrina went and fetched; there's just no freakin' stopping her) contained a check from Dell Magazines -- payment for my short story Action, which will appear in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine sometime in the not-too-distant future. It probably ain't enough to cover the copay for the MRI, but it doesn't matter. It may sound crass, but there's no better feeling for a writer than getting paid actual dollars American for something you made up.
So yeah. Happy-dancing abounds. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go prevent my wife from making dinner.