It’s not electric sex—but then, who doesn’t need eighty bucks?

It’s been a while since I last posted, but I have excuses.

First, I’ve had a full plate of paying work, which is always good news. Second, we’ve had some busy weekends, including the last one, when I picked up my major award.

I know what you’re thinking and the answer is no, I did not receive a leg lamp. I did, however, receive an $80 check for having the third-place entry in the Wisconsin Regional Writers Association’s short story contest.

Those who’ve read my fiction know I usually like to write about people having sex or things blowing up (and, in more than one case, things blowing up while people are having sex). I do have a soft, squishy sentimental streak, though, and my winning story, “Twenty-three-and-a-half,” falls into that category. At least, that’s what I thought. The judge wrote the story “could have been predictable or sentimental…but it’s not.”

It doesn’t say much for my ability to judge my own work, but I’ll take it.

Thanks to the WRWA—and to the dozen or so writing group compatriots whose comments helped me make “Twenty-three-and-a-half” as good as it could be.

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