One afternoon during the long vacation I took in the summer of 1996, I walked from my home at the top of a steep hill, down to the little, sleepy, bitter, benighted hamlet at its foot, to the typically small and unpleasant post office, where I stood in line to mail this story to a magazine in San Francisco which I'd picked out of one of those writer's market guides. Afterwards I went across the street to the famous J.P. Licks and treated myself to a hot fudge sundae. Then I turned for home, walked back up the long steep hill, and by the time I reached my front porch the magazine had already returned the story in my self-addressed stamped envelope, along with a printed card which suggested that I submit it again, to their upcoming short story competition, along with a $5 fee.

As my sister would say, J'adore le internet.