Sadness

My great short story writer's goal used to be, aside from having a book of them as cleverly written as "Runaway", to have my story published in the New Yorker. They publish only the most fabulous and interesting short stories and poems. I am fabulous and interesting (to me!) and so, if I ever have a short story finished, it is a match made in heave. Amid pages of half finished manuscripts, there is a note to myself about this, to inspire me to finish at least one.

But alas, today, after seeing the satirical picture depicting Obama, a Black man in America, as a terrorist (I have walked through the airport with my father, who happens to be a very tall and large (in a muscular way) biracial man and after 9/11 frightened everyone even more; it is an incredibly humiliating and disturbing experience and I would not wish it on anyone innocent) and his wife Michelle as some strange militant (really, she was a law firm associate for goodness sake; you can't be that militant), I have forever tabled that dream.

Now I will never finish a short story. The "Runaway" goal is far too ambitious (even for me) and there isn't another publication in my short list of unrealistic publication places with the New Yorker's buzz for short stories. Alas, yet another secondary career goal bites the dust (the last one was actress; tradgic, very tradgic).