[Forward]

When I was about 10 years old or so, I tried to land a spot in Playboy magazine. You see, even though I was young, by that point in life, I'd figured out what I wanted to do, what I wanted to be when I grew up. I would be a writer. I had always been a voracious reader, and by second grade, I was tackling Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy. By third grade, my parents, keenly recognizing there was something interesting afoot in my growing little neural synapses, let me start reading NY times best-sellers. I sort of bypassed Judy Blume altogether for Peter Benchley, but that's another story unto itself. My point is that in discovering a love of words at such an early age, I also discovered something else -- I wanted to be like the authors I was reading. I wanted to write.

Most girls can probably trace their childhood through memories of Barbie dolls and bicycles. I can track mine through which typewriter I had at the time. I started young, probably around seven years old, when my parents gave my a kiddie typewriter for Christmas. It was more of a toy than anything, but I pecked out manuscripts and stories on it nonetheless, and my parents, savvy enough to recognize my interest, bought me another one the following year -- a real one; a ten-pound steel behemoth with a plastic carrying case and heavy keys that slammed into the paper forcefully with every stroke, bludgeoning words into the meat of the paper as much as crafting them there. For hours and hours and hours, I would pound out my stories, forgoing snacks, toys, the chance to play outside, until at last, sick of the incessant jackhammering, followed inevitably by the equally incessant DING-scriiiiiiiitch! as I'd hit the end of a line and hard return to begin another, they bought me a computerized (translation: SILENT) electric one.

I used the electric one for a couple of years and by high school had graduated up to a Brother stand-alone wordprocesser. Between that one and a subsequent, updated model, I made it through college. Upon graduation with my bachelor's degree, I treated myself to an Apple laptop. Today, that's now an HP notebook, the latest in a continuing string of computers that has taken me from college graduation through the Pleistocene era and into the present day.

But back to Playboy. By the time I sent them a short story -- neatly typed on my steel megalith of a typewriter in Courier font, double-spaced with one inch margins on my page, as was the standard, per my Writer's Market -- I had graduated up the fiction food chain to reading Stephen King. I loved Stephen King. And Stephen King had short stories published in Playboy magazine. Thus, I figured what was good enough for him was good enough for me; that if he, an author I admired and wanted to emulate, could be published in the pages of Hugh Hefner's mag, well, then, it was something worth me aspiring to, as well.

I don't remember which story I sent to them now, but I remember the excitement I felt when I sealed inside of a manila envelope and dropped it into the mailbox. I can remember the eager anticipation as I waited for a reply, so certain was I that my writing career was about to take off. And when I finally did indeed receive a response from them, I had my first debilitating taste of rejection.

In retrospect, it was a very nice letter, handwritten by an editor at Playboy who had undoubtedly enjoyed a good chuckle at my pluck. The editor encouraged me in my writing pursuits and wished me good luck. It was written on Playboy letterhead; a small slip of cream-colored paper with the bunny-ear logo embossed on the top. I still have it somewhere, tucked away in storage alongside of other childhood mementos, like my personalized autographs from Gregory Hines and Michael Biehn (the guy who falls naked out of the sky in the original Terminator -- yum!).

When I received the letter from Playboy, I don't recall being particularly disappointed. I probably was, to some degree, but like I said, it was a nice letter and I had the stubborn tenacity and inherent resilience that all kids seem to possess. I bounced back pretty quickly and was soon writing again.

My next submission wouldn't come until many years later, a full-length sci-fi manuscript sent to Del Rey. That one, I didn't bounce back so well from, having discovered that as you get older, the adage, "I am rubber, you are glue... blah blah blah" doesn't hold up so well in terms of your ego. But that's a story for another day. As in tomorrow, since I'm here all week.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Hailed by Romantic Times magazine as "definitely an author to watch," Sara Reinke has interpreted vampire legends and lore in her own unique way in The Brethren Series. The first book, Dark Thirst, called "a fascinating and unique romance" by Romantic Times is available now in mass-market paperback from Zebra Books for only $3.99. The sequel, Dark Hunger, which NY Times best-selling author Lara Adrian calls "a paranormal treat to be savored," is also available now for only $4.99. Find out more about Sara and The Brethren Series at www.sarareinke.com.