There are a lot of big-hearted people in this genre. It may surprise you to find that, in a world of horror and blood and death, there are hearts not seared black and evil, but rather full of generosity and giving. People like R. Scott McCoy, author of Feast and head of Necrotic Tissue magazine, Gregory L. Hall, author of At the End of Church Street and grand poobah of Choate Road and The Funky Werepig, both of whom sent major necessities when my baby was first born. It’s filled with people like Natalie Sin, messed-up author of horror and lover of all that concerns oriental boy bands, who sends twisted Christmas cards each year without fail. Filled with giving people like Timothy Deal and Danny Evarts from Shroud magazine, fellows with an open ear to listen and help regardless of their own insane schedules (damned Alliance boys). Lined with men like Ben Eads, a fellow author I’ve known since the day I sent my first story in, and Andrew Wolter, author of Nightfall among many others, who lend support in both emotionally-trying times and when my computer farts out.
So many people to name, and I know I forget so, so many. My apologies, but time and page length restraints confine us to only a few.
But today, let us focus on one who I won’t name. I think she’d prefer it that way; to be kept anonymous.
We could all use lottery winnings. I’ve never played the lottery much, choosing rather to be content with my meager earnings from the day job. But times have gotten harder now, there are bills and taxes from two separate estates that we’re trying to keep up. Hell, we were broke trying to afford one home, but now the childhood home of my mother is in peril.
So I started pulling overtime, taking up another job, and buying those lottery tickets with my lunch money (hell, I figure I can both lose weight and possibly be a millionaire at the same time).
I was waiting on the numbers to come across the screen a few Saturdays ago, conversing with a few friends and fans on Twitter. “C’mon, big money… daddy needs a new pair of shoes,” was one of the comments. And, all joking aside, that’s true. My pair of Converse Chuck Taylors are all but threadbare. They’re Pope shoes–hol(e)y.
Of course, seeing as I’m sitting here blogging this and not on some Australian beach having trained koalas bring me stout Tom Collins, I didn’t win. Didn’t get one single number, much less a Powerball number. And that’s okay, I know the score.
But later on I was sent a message from a great woman with instructions to check my e-mail inbox. And when I did, I found this note:
“This isn’t as good as winning the lottery, but thought I’d send you an early b-day gift. You can even buy shoes on Amazon these days lol.”
Attached was an Amazon gift card for $100.
Very kind woman who shall remain nameless, thanks for reminding me that we win the lottery much more often than we think.
38.115990
-82.600458
