When I turned 50, I intentionally decided to shake things up a bit. There was a group of women I knew that were writers, and met every month for several years. I pleaded my case to join them and have been with them for four years. Throughout the first year when it was my turn to read something I wrote, I wanted to throw up. Every. Single. Time. It is still something I hate to do, even when I'm satisfied with the finished product, in fear that they'll find out that I'm such a hack at writing that I have no business being there.
A few weeks ago, I told The Big Daddy that I had a good writing week. I was happy with what I was posting, the stories were still swirling in my brain, and the daily numbers of hits on this blog were decent. Then there was this week. In one way or another, I heard from every person in my writers group, either through email, Facebook or in the comment section, for no reason other than to touch base and cheer me on.
I was walking my dog past the house of one of my writing friends and she came out to chat. She walked me home and we talked about kids, work and writing. I told her about something I wrote a year ago, and she insisted that I get to work on finding someone to publish it and She Would Not Let It Go. Right now, she said, get in the house and send it off. I decided to send it to our paper for a column called "As I See It." The next day I heard back from them and I am about to be a published author for the very first time.
Oh my, this was a piece of the dream, and Cinderella feels like she got asked to the ball. All of those fairy godmothers of hers worked night and day to make sure she looked pretty, and she is very, very grateful.