One day, last June, I gave my creative writing professor, David Chariandy, a copy of the piece I had written in his class. He had thought it worthy of  publication and kindly offered to submit to his publishing house, with his recommendation. Last week I received a copy of the Exile Quarterly with gift note from my professor, which I was sure was a sign that my piece had not been selected for publication.

Today, out of sheer luck, I learned that my short story had been accepted for publication. Its a long and uninteresting story, but lets just say, I checked an old email account just in time to see that today I had received an email from Barry Callaghan, editor of Exile Quarterly, stating my submission had been accepted.

It is not a big surprise that I cried while I was making Kraft Dinner for my girls for lunch, or when I called my father, and mother, brother and sister.  The story concerns them all. Not only did I want to tell them of the great excitement of the day, but I wanted to let them know that my literary musings of certain childhood events will soon be made public.

What I have written is not true, nor is it pure fiction.  'A creative memoir' of sorts would be a better description.  I worry that my point of view will be taken both too seriously or not seriously enough.  I hope that people will think it is not true and that perhaps my family will think it is and it isn't, depending on their particular perspective.

In the end, it is what is.  I am so grateful to have my work taken seriously by others and I hope it brews bigger and better things...