I’m questioning the sanity of heading off to Charlottesville to attend this writer’s festival at 6:30 a.m. on a blessed sleep-in Saturday. Geez, I get up at dawn’s deafening crack every morning. I could loll around in bed for a little while. Besides, we just “sprang forward” last Saturday, and I still haven’t recovered my lost hour. I feel like I have jet lag.
My inner bitch critic is being sneaky. Instead of trying to guilt me into staying home, she’s trying to tempt me with sleep. That’s a low blow. Precious sleep-in minutes have been a hot commodity since my daughter was born. I don’t need an alarm clock. Mine weighs about thirty pounds and stands in her crib at the top of the stairs shouting, “Mama! Goooooooooood MORNING, Mama! Tum DIT ME, PEEEEZ! I weady to DIT UP NOW!” She has no snooze button.
Sleep or no sleep, Charlottesville will not be denied. I’m going. No questions. I am sitting at my computer this Friday night trying to prepare my memoir about the struggles with infertility I faced before having my daughter. I am taking the first 250 words to the “Dancing With the Manuscripts” session. Published authors had agreed to come and give new writers feedback on their work. I feel pretty confident about what I’ve written. My experiences with magazine writing have helped me craft a decent beginning. I just tweaked it and gave it to my husband for review.
“Looks good to me,” he said. “Go with it!”
I’ve printed off several copies. I just finished making a few changes to a couple of children’s stories I have written to take with me, and I have some hard copies of my resume. I’m thinking that it can’t hurt.
Earlier, I packed my tote and ironed the new turquoise shirt my mom had given me last week. It is a striking blue, and I think it will help me stand out. I’m a minute fish in a gargantuan ocean. I need all the help I could get.
But, here I am, all ready to go. My inner bitch critic is silent. I guess I’ve exhausted her into submission for the time being. Look out world, here I come!