I love to write. Most of the time I even consider myself a good writer. Imagine my surprise when the other day I found myself considering submitting an application for a writers’ residency in the heart of the Adirondacks. For so many reasons the Adirondacks are at the root of my soul. My father’s family is from there. My mother’s family lives just South of there. My alma mater is just North of there.
The refrain in my mind was much like I remember giving to others questioning applying for jobs, “Better to apply and turn it down than not apply and wonder ‘what if.'”
But when so much of my being is wrapped up in my writing; when so much of my ego relies on feeling like I’m a good writer; the vulnerability that arises from subjecting myself to a juried writing situation is terrifying.
My sister spent awhile last night telling me to just go for it. She’s right. I should – I will. That doesn’t alleviate those feelings of vulnerability, though. I don’t know if anything could/would/will. I just know I have to go for it. I have enough regrets in my life. I don’t need to add one in relation to one of the things I’m most proud of.