Four minutes, 14 seconds,forty ums and ahs.

I've hemmed and hawed over linking to this short interview I gave for CBC Newfoundland and Labrador's Weekend Arts Magazine in a "local girl makes good" story that aired on Saturday. I am trying not to appear too goofily excited over the Good Housekeeping deal. The issue hit the stands over the weekend, and I did not snatch Us magazine out of anyone's hands in the checkout aisle and slap them upside the head with it, snapping, "Oh for God's sake, grow up!" as I tossed GH into their basket.

Opened to page one hundred and seventy-five.

Because that would not be cool. Not that I know much from cool, as you can tell from the aforementioned audio clip. I have no idea why I used the word "optioned" in reference to the sale of my other work, but I'm pretty sure it's not the correct word. And, shockingly, it turns out GH does not post the back pages of the magazine on their website. Although the question made it sound entirely plausible at the time (CORRECTION: Well, what do you know? They certainly do.) But I'm trying to modulate, at least in public.

In private, I have given myself permission to celebrate. Because it was just a few short months ago, after yet another rejection, that I was crying all over my friend's kitchen counter how no one would ever give a damn, and I was doomed to live out my days as the lady poet who reads at tea parties. And I will probably be back to blubber all over the formica again at some point before very much longer. With every pitch, query, and submission, goes a little piece of my soul, to circle the glass towers of Manhattan, glance off and get swept up with the sidewalk trash. I am drinking in this small moment (a gift—I didn't pitch this one) as a tonic. Fortification for the next round.

And so, at home and with friends, I am elated and thrilled, and with Patrick, insufferable. I am calling him my Stedman for the rest of the summer.