And there it was.

{via}

You know how people always ask you "that question" on your birthday? You know the one. "How do you feel now that you're *insert any number from 3-25*?" I've always been mildly annoyed by those questions. It doesn't feel any different. It's just another day in the life. Turning 17 isn't what makes you feel 17; all the awesome and not-so-awesome things you experience when you're 17 are what make you feel a year older. And by the time you feel that way, you're 18, and the cycle starts over again.

I got asked a similar question recently. I was sitting there, holding it in my hands, staring down at page 32 with a slightly dazed expression on my face and a pure cloud of golden joy fogging up my vision. "So," my dad asked. "How does it feel to be published?"

The answer?

Not that much different. It feels great, don't get me wrong. I don't think I'll ever forget the feeling I felt when I tore away that envelope and saw the magazine hiding inside, or the feeling I felt when I saw my story printed on a crisp white page, one of those shiny expensive magazine pages and not the flimsy computer paper pages my stories have lived on for so long. I couldn't stop smiling. But I didn't feel all that different. I have a theory. Getting published the kind of experience that totally exhausts you and makes you terribly happy and is often followed by a burst of applause from friends and family. Then when it's all over, you sit back, read your story a few times, and tap your fingers on the table.

That was fun, you think. Now let's do it again.

And I'm already planning to.

Ps. Getting published could also be just like doing a gigantic face-smash into a delicious chocolate cake. I haven't quite decided yet.