that men have the edge when it comes to selling certain types of fiction, and since I wasn’t fond of my name in the first place (to me, Deborah Bambi Winston always sounded so cotton-candy-cheerleader-from-Queen-Disneyland-sorority-sister-cutesy, and plain old Debbie Winston had a small-town-lumber-mill-office-clerk feel to it), using my initials seemed so appealing, so natural, so crisply efficient...and, unbeknownst to me, so masculine.
Crazy as that sounds, it does make sense; wasn’t that editor surprised to find out that I was a woman, which in turn meant that the impression she’d gotten that I was a man was a strong one? After all, didn’t Peter Pan, or one of those fairy tale kiddies, say that “wishing makes it so?” If that’s the case, wouldn’t “thinking makes it so” also apply? I remembered the B.Q. editor’s note, the one he included with my contributor’s copies...the one with the readers’ survey results. That meant a lot of readers who looked for my stories, and if I had had my doubts before—Winston was a man. I got out the letter, and if I had had my doubts before—
“...fifth most requested author, behind Bloch and Williamson and Koontz, and you’d be surprised which authors you topped. Funny, some of the readers added comments in the margins about their favorites, and about you they wrote, “he’s my favorite,” and “That Winston dude scares me!” I guess the readers really got into those macho-hero adventures about pagan sacrifices and bird-blood worship you wrote while you were still living in....”
—that was the capper. Odd, even though I now know (think I know) what happened, I’m no better off than before...like, I can’t do any—
Thought of something. More later.
July 2. My hands and fingers aches, my eyes are blurred from staring at endless black letters marching across illuminated white paper, my tongue is coated with that awful gummy taste from licking too many stamps and envelope flaps...but I think this may work. Might work. Has got to work. Pleasepleaseplease work.
In less than two weeks I have written eight short stories, three poems, and a criticism of faceless-personality-less-mindless killers in 1980s teen slasher flicks. Plus cover letters for each submission with my full name, Deborah Bambi Winston, as in “Miss” and “Ms.” etc. on each one, and on the upper-right hand corner of each first page. And all the rest of the pages, for good measure. I’ll mail them all, twelve different envelopes for as many different zines (all the ones I submit to who don’t know I’m a female...inside), but I’ll wait until darkfall to leave the apartment.
July 25. Maybe it will work. My chest feels plump in places, the right places. And it seems shorter, not that I examined it much to begin with. Keep thinking girl, girl, I am a girl, chant it like a litany....
Aug. 1. The hair on my chest is thinning, fine and almost gone from under the now slight protuberance on my throat. Got back two ms., with slips attached for a “Miss Winston.” Much better. One poem sold; the check is made out to “Ms. Deborah B. Winston”—I guess the “Bambi” part was a bit much for the poor editor! Got a packet of fan mail (!) from B.Q., a few were addressed to “Mr. or Ms. Winston,” and one was for a “Miss”! Also, a b/w mock-up of the next cover, with the full name, etc.
The dogs are licking my hands and letting me pet them again.
Aug. 16. I’m almost big enough upstairs to wiggle when I walk! A bit disconcerting with the remainder of the chest hair, but I’ll live! Two rejection slips, made out for “Ms. Winston.” One sale, no check yet. The editor from B.Q. called, said my phone line sounded clearer. Part one of the “Deborah Bambi Winston” novella will be out September 2. I may be able to throw out the tweezers and shave cream yet!
Aug. 30. Plucked out what I pray is the last whisker this morning. Can show my face in the hallway again, neighbors claimed they missed me. Weight down to 141. That is gone now, almost, retracting from whence it came, for eternity, I hope. (Never did give in and urinate standing up.) Today I will go shopping out in the mid-day sun, and never mind the ultraviolet rays. Cancer can’t be much worse than...what happened.
Sept. 4. Got the check for “The Metamanphosis” from Skin. I’d almost forgotten that I’d sold that one...wanted to forget, actually. I’ll have to contact the editor and have him change the byline. He’ll probably get a kick out of the “Bambi” part. I’ll write him a note after stopping at the bank, and walking the boys.
Sept. 5. It’s out. In the stores. Skin Magazine, with the “Clarke Dennis” byline and story title on the front cover. My contrib. copies came late, bulk rate, sent in late August. The editor put in a note. Said how much he loved the story. Said the first part almost fooled him. Said he enjoyed talking with me in July. Said I should subscribe, cut-rate to his zine, that I’d like it. Said his readers were bound to go nuts over the story. Said I seem like a really great guy.
He’s right. Sort of.
I am a great guy.
In a few places here and there this time.
AFTERWORD
Those readers who have already bought my other Borgo collection Ewerton Death Trip, or who may have seen the classic 1980s digest-sized horror magazine Night Cry are probably familiar with my story “Dear D. B. ...”; it was in the final issue of N.C., and was also a fairly popular download on the now defunct Alexandria Digital Literature site. But this version is the fate I originally intended for Deborah Bambi Winston—however, the editor at N.C. thought it was too literal to qualify as a N.C. story, so he suggested that I try rewriting it, which I did. I do agree that this is a tad literal, but, then again, so was Gregor Sama’s transformation in The Metamorphosis. (Not that my story is in the same league as Kafka’s masterpiece!)
As rough-edged as this is, I still like it, and have been trying for years without success to interest editors into running it (even for free) as a specialty item, to no avail—but, given the fact that I have other multiple-version variants of a couple of other stories out there, in various magazines and collections, I thought this one deserved to be published, too.
Personally, I find both versions of the story somewhat flawed; this one for obvious reasons, but I’m not 100% fond of “Dear D. B. ...” simply because I didn’t have the opportunity to do a much-needed revamp/rewrite on it prior to it getting published—N.C.’s editor knew that the magazine was folding soon, and wanted one last story from me in it...and “Dear D. B. ...” was in his submission pile, so he ran with it as-is. One comment I received from Peggy Nadramia over at Grue was especially apt—she noted that D. B. would have to have a slew of odd jobs on the side in order to survive in New York City, even living in a low-rent hovel. That is something I would have liked to have addressed in the story, but I’m not planning on rewriting something which is already fairly well-known. But Peggy’s point was well taken....
The incident which actually inspired me to write this one was the misidentification of me as a male writer in an early small press appearance—at the time I thought it was funny, and only gradually considered the notion of public perception influencing bodily reality....
MOTHER GOTHEL AND PERSINETTE
Of all the flowering trees in her garden, the sorceress Mother Gothel loved her persimmon tree the best; a wandering witch from the distant island called Kyushu presented it to Mother Gothel as a token of her affection, and each summer, when the red-orange berries ripened, their sweet ovals, when sliced in half before the succulent tasting, reminded Mother Gothel of that witch’s hidden, deep pink sweetness.
Thus, whenever Mother Gothel tended to her garden, she spent the most time near that special tree, counting each ripening fruit, and savoring each minute spent in anticipation of her harvest-time feast...and its accompanying memories, for in the land where she dwelled other sorceresses and witches were scarce indeed, and often the years were long and lonely between her all-too-brief times of shared passion. Mother Gothel’s only neighbors were a married couple who lived on the other side of the high stone wall which surrounded her garden, and their mutual happiness was too complete to allow the wife to offer any such joy to Mother Gothel...but when the sorceress entered her private garden one afternoon, she discovered the husband plucking the smooth-fleshed ripe persimmons from the lower branches