I grew up in rural California, by a small town in the middle of nowhere. The main street had four antique stores and no traffic lights, and that still hasn’t changed. As a kid, the only event was the occasional loud pop from the nearby Air Force Base. The cows were quite used to the noise, but I would look up to spot the white cloudy streak in the sky, and if I looked quick enough I would see the bright light at the tip of the contrail. These were minuteman missiles, launched without warning and without explanation. My mother told me they were sent to check on the weather, but whenever I heard it rip a line into the blue, I wondered if it was capable of more.
A writer’s life can be as dull as a small town. Nothing moves or changes fast. The daily routine is one of isolation and discipline. But we are meant for more. Every once in a while, a light bursts like a flare and lifts off to an unknown destination. And everyone not chewing the grass looks up, and marvels.
Writers aren’t meant to stay on the ground forever. They’re meant to take off, and Pulp Literature is ready for launch.
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