My friend, who is already at AWP, texted me to say that registration wasn’t open yet, but she was ducking out for a cup of coffee because the area was already swarming with writers who were too hip for her.
This is the fear that keeps me up at nights before this kind of event. I’m going to walk into the herd and feel unpublished, insignificant, and alone. I’m going to hate everything about this whole fucking process. I’m uglier and stupider than everyone here. I’m going to go back to school to get my MBA. [Ed. Note: Indy is now wiping tears of laughters from her eyes. She knows 25 ways to count a drawer to 100.]
For reasons to boring to explain, I am at DP’s workplace, waiting for him to get done molding young minds. The thought of grading papers makes me want to die. So I sat down and wrote. Five-hundred words expanding on an idea that needed to be expanded upon.
And that is the antidote to the insecurity and fear. Fuck the pretentious assholes and write. Five-hundred mediocre words can lead to 500 better words, which someday pleasegodplease will lead to a book.
Don’t forget to enter the contest for best-ever rejection. As soon as Cougar emerges from the great back of beyond, we will find a time to talk and judge it and you and the dumbasses who rejected your fine, fine work!