Licking My Wounds

So, whatever God was bringing my way? You know, the thing I'd been waiting so patiently for? I found out today that it wasn't grad school at Bennington. The dreaded letter arrived in the mail. When I fished it out of the giant pile of bills, I was certain it was going to be the perfect ending to a fun-filled day.

Damn.

There's nothing like a ding letter to take the wind out of your writing sails. As a writer, I receive them constantly. I've grown accustomed to papering my walls with them. But grad school? Really? I've always been good at school. Perhaps I should have sent my A+++ Haiku. If my shiny, happy college transcripts didn't do the trick, maybe that would have tipped the scales in my favor.

I'm more disappointed than I thought I'd be. If I'd been accepted, I'm not even sure whether I would have gone. It's incredibly expensive, it's more than demanding, and it would have required a lot of time away from my family. But ultimately, I wanted to be the one to make that decision. I wanted to tell them "no," not vice versa.

Yes, I know that's an issue.

The word that keeps popping into my head? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Because sometimes nothing is as effective as the F-Bomb at conveying my emotions. Eloquent? No. But effective nonetheless.

The good news is that I didn't writhe around on the floor in agony and defeat like I did when I received my ding letter from Hallmark at age 22. I guess that means I've grown up a bit since then. I know it's not the end of the world. But blows like this are tough on the ego. I had planned to come home and work on my novel tonight. Now I'm pretty convinced that it's nothing more than mindless drivel. I was just talking with Jenny today about my resistance to self-publishing or e-publishing because of my need for validation from The Publishing Experts. I need someone else to say "yes" before I can say "yes" to myself.

Yeah, I realize that's an even bigger issue.

It's been a rough week at the Willis abode. Sam got cut from the 8th grade basketball team. Mary Claire didn't get the detective job she wanted at BizTown. (She was, however, named CFO. I tried to explain to her that this wasn't the colossal disappointment she thought it was, but she REALLY wanted to be a detective.)

And therein lies the message for all of us, right?

Whatever we have in mind for ourselves isn't always part of the Bigger Plan. Bennington wasn't meant to be for me. At least not now. Maybe not ever.

I know there's a reason.

But tonight, I'm fighting those damn demons that say, "You're not good enough. You're not talented enough. You'll never make it."

And what do we call that, Shmee? Resistance? He's taken up residence in my house. I just fluffed the pillows and brought him a glass of warm milk. Tomorrow, I'll commence with kicking his ass to the curb.

I know life goes on. I realize that in the big scheme of things, I am more than blessed. I have more than my share. I am one damn lucky woman. I may not have been the right fit for Bennington, but I'll figure out where I'm supposed to land.

On to Plan B...