"A. R. Morlan - Dear DB" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morlan A R)

isolation on the rest of "The Metamanphosis," and on a whim I decided to try
sending it in to that holy-of-literary-holies, _Skin Magazine._ The one the
7-Elevens wouldn't touch with two flag poles soldered together. I figured it
wouldn't hurt; one of the assistant editors there knew my work from previous
tries, and once I got a handwritten note scribbled on the bottom of a
rejection slip, telling me to please try again, that the editor of the
magazine knew my work from _Bloodbath_ and liked it. They got my name wrong on
the note, calling me "Dear Mr. Winston." The note _was_ a nice touch, and
since I'd be appearing in the next three issues of _BQ_ anyhow, I decided to
give _Skin_ a shot at "The Metamanphosis."
If I had any hopes of pulling stakes out of this dump (the nerve of
that old biddy!) I had to start pulling in contracts from the top markets ...
a lot of them.
In retrospect, sending in that story to _Skin Magazine_ was the best
thing I ever did considering the circumstances I had fallen into but at the
time, when I finally got it through my hick skull what was going on, I didn't
_want_ to believe it.
After a month of slinking to the bathroom, avoiding Mr. Hernandez and
his mumbled _gringo_ remarks by sliding the rent under his door before it was
due, and telling myself that it was _normal_ for a woman not to hear lewd
comments from men on the street (despite the fact that I still wore skimpy
summer garb) I got a call not from _Bloodbath,_ but from _Skin Magazine..._and
not just from someone in the fiction department. I was speaking to Mr.
Father-of-_Skin_himself, the Man Mr.-Meese-Would-Love-To-Bring-To-His-_Knees,_
the _editor. Him,_ his _Skin_ness, talking to _me._ The clods back in Ewerton
would have done number two in their sanctimonious overalls while tsk-tsking in
horror (the few stores in Ewerton which reluctantly stock _Bloodbath
Quarterly_ only do so for a week before ripping off the covers and tossing the
pages in the dumpsters, ever since that braless she-demon graced the Fall
cover a couple of years back welcome to the Bible Belt, folks!) while the
hometown girl passed the time of day with Mr. Pornography, Esq. Actually, the
guy seemed very nice, not sexist at all.
Very politely, he asked for "Denton Blair" (my pen name if my mom's egg
had got it on with a Y sperm instead of an X way back when, it would have been
my real name), then corrected himself when he noticed my real name D.B.




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Winston typed at the top of the page, next to the "Member, SFWA." (I suppose
days spent oogling bare, tanned flesh can mess up a guy's eyesight.) Either
way, he wasn't surprised that I was a woman (while we chatted, I thought _how
nice, a man who prints beaver shots who isn't a macho "where's your husband
little woman" boor...),_ then he got to the point; he wanted to run "The
Metamanphosis" in the January issue, and my heart almost pounded right through
my chest and popped out of my t-shirt (John Hurt with his Alien-in-the-chest
would have had nothing on _me_), and I had to keep reminding myself, _Don't_
grovel, _woman! Don't drool on the receiver and electrocute yourself! Suppose
he wants some revisions!_