I ordered the 2017 edition of the Writers Yearbook. I've been promising to study this book for the last two years and not had the courage to order it. Finally it's arrived and a week later I forced myself to open the parcel. Am I ready for this? To submit my work where it counts? Am I ready for a line of rejections?
I've rather lost myself in grown-up life lately. House, Job, Promotion. To most people these things would be huge accomplishments. For a normal-everyday-life. For a normal-everyday-woman. To me, they are distractions, but also reminders. This is not what I want. This life-is not my life. I'm meant for so much more. I wish more than anything that I don't let myself fall into the forgetfulness of grown-up life. To be content with the mundane and accept this is it for most people, why should it not be it for me too. It's just not good enough. Not when the thirteen year old sitting on her window sill writing is still inside me and she's restless.
If you were here I'd have more courage for this. But I think you disappeared when they destroyed our Pond. I wish you'd come back- I cannot think straight without you.