Back in January, I got off my ass and sent off a couple of my short stories for possible publication or entry into a prestigious (gak) writing program. One of my stories has been accepted and will be published next month. I was wait listed for one writing program.
Because I have ADHD (for real, but not medicated), I thought I’d missed the deadline for the second program, Bread Loaf, because I failed to check off the box on my handy-dandy To Do list. These ADHD tricks don’t work so well if I neglect to use them, dumbass. However, it turns out I did in fact apply. Because late last night I got the rejection letter. They accepted only 19% of the applicants, but damn it, I thought I’d be in the minority.
The notice put a rain cloud over my successful race.
It shouldn’t have. Just yesterday morning I was thinking maybe I should give up my writing dreams. I’ve not felt especially creative in months. And except for this bad news, I can’t say I’m particularly plagued by my dry spell.
But who am I if not a writer? I could type before I could handwrite. I’ve been reading since I was three. My head is often lost in some silly fantasy. Not considering myself a writer leaves me feeling like I’ve lost something.
Or have I? Perhaps this is an opportunity awaiting discovery. Or maybe just being is enough, that I don’t need to define myself by proving I’m a writer worth reading.
Maybe I’ve just given up or maybe I am making peace with a truth.
My biggest danger is feeling like a fraud. I don’t know to whom, although I suspect it’s my mother’s self-satisfied smirk I’m picturing. She’s always been the monster at the top of the stairs, the one who shoved me down and laughed at my broken body at her feet.