The rumour is that I'm up for a Derringer this year for a short story in Busted Flush Press's anthology of geezer noir: Damn Near Dead. Which is nice. And yes, I know I don't stand a bleedin' chance, but a boy can dream, can't he?
Bill 'Edgars Ahoy' Crider's excellent story CRANK (also in Damn Near Dead) is up for a Derringer too, but luckily for me it's in a different category. Then again, given that all the other stories in my category are probably serious works with violence and stuff, and mine is a nice little cosy tale of a little old lady, her West Highland Terrier (called Wee Doug), and her tartan shopping trolley, chances are I'm screwed anyway ;}#
But it's very cool to be shortlisted.
I'm in two minds what to do about it. Do I blush and mumble about how I'm not worthy, and it's an honour to be nominated, or do I big it up and campaign like a greasy self-promoting cock-weasel? Or do I tread some sort of middle ground, like a ninja with digestive discomfort and feminine itching?
A bugger it, let's go for rampant cock-weaselry: rise up my minions of the beard! Rise up and get thee hence to the Short Mystery Fiction Society, join-up and vote my pretties! Vote and be fruitful! Vote early and vote often! And if anyone catches you at it, pretend it was all a mistake and you were just trying to order a jumbo bucket of hotwings for home delivery. With extra hot sauce and a side of corn. That'll fool them. Bwahahahaha!
Mind you, knowing my luck you'll all go out and vote for someone else. It's so difficult to get good minions these days ;}#
But back in the real world: good luck to everyone on the list, especially Bill. And big ups to Mr Swierczynski and Mr Thompson for putting us in the anthology in the first place, and then submitting the hell out of it.
Me? I'm going to bask in the reflective glow till someone tells me I haven't won.
To the trees!
Labels: cock-weasel, stuff, Stuff about me, writing