Alone, after leaving agent number 8, a couple of years ago, I set out to sell my short story collection myself. After all, I’d made a few contacts with editors over the years, at writers’ conferences and through publishing my stories separately—all the right places to ensure that my name was known, establishing myself in the market of stories, which I would come to find out is totally different from the novel market. Soooo different. Except for a few writers—think Alice Munroe, for one—story collections don’t sell; novels do. I’d found that out with my first book, a story collection, even with the name of a famous writer/ publisher attached, the great and generous Joyce Carol Oates. Still, stories are my first love; for me they are mini-novels. They are reprieves. After finishing long works, between novels, I write short fiction the way some writers take vacations, or pitch drunks. After going the way of computers, like the rest of the world, I’d amassed about 300 contacts in my Outlook Express address book. So, after putting together what I thought was a superb synopsis of my collection, titled SOMETHING SAFE, SOMETHING FREE, I began pulling up names of the few publishers who still bother with story collections—mainly university presses—along with editors I’d met or been in contact with over the years. Some were only names, for example, “Big Blue,” with no description, no detail, under Properties to jog my memory. Okay, Big Blue, I decided, had to be that editor I met at a conference at Ole Miss, several years back. Had to be that new imprint at Penguin-Putnam. Something about a blue hen. I couldn’t even recall what the fellow looked like, only that he had been nice, friendly, which covers just about everything for me. Blundering through the process of emailing attachments and re-acquainting myself—hoping these editors would remember me even if I couldn’t remember them—I sent out the synopsis, along with a couple of sample stories, my best, previously published in the finest journals, such as STORY, ONTARIO REVIEW and THE GEORGIA REVIEW. That oughta get em! What I lacked in book sales I’d made up for with critical acclaim—THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW, first and foremost. So, I included their quote on my previous collection, GOING THROUGH THE CHANGE: “Even in microcosm, Janice Daugharty is a writer who thinks big.” I wrapped up my introductory letter with asking editors to let me know if they’d like to see more stories (I think I had something like 25 to pick from). I was prepared for the long wait—university presses, particularly, don’t get in any hurry to respond. But “Big Blue” responded the same day—or more specifically night: “Heck yeah,” wrote Big Blue, “I’d love to read your stories.” I was stunned, thrilled. Next night, Big Blue wrote and said to send more stories. I sent two more. Same thing the next night. “Boy, you’re really something,” said Big Blue. Send more, the next night. Getting more and more excited, I began really trying to recall this editor’s face, to remember the exact name of the new imprint associated with Penguin-Putnam. Was I sure it was Penguin-Putnam? I even tried going Online and looking them up. Nothing there about a blue hen and my mind would draw a blank every time I tried to pull him up from the old brain. All that came to me for all my intense concentrating was…he had a mustache. Meantime, Big Blue was really getting friendly. Getting personal. Never once making critical remarks about my stories but inquiring from time to time whether this or that within the story “really happened.” And…would I like to meet sometimes over lunch to discuss them. Well, I’m in South Georgia and Big Blue is in NY and it just ain’t that easy, you know. A month went by and I still had no clue as to whether or not Big Blue wanted the collection. He was writing stuff like, “That one was real good,” and “Boy, that Willie was a mess,” referring to the main character in my title story in the collection. Meanwhile, I was trying to pick apart his email address for connections to Penguin-Putnam. Nothing but “Big Blue@msn.com.” Nerves raw from waiting, and of course no response from the other big boys I’d sent the collection to, I finally had to ask him who he was and what publisher he was with. His response: “I’m that cop from Albany, remember? The one came out to your place a while back with your cousin Margaret Ann.”