Last week, I finally received my copy of The Best of Farmhouse Magazine. My name is listed among the authors on the back cover. My name and the title of the story is listed on the copyright page. My name is in the table of contents, noting that the story starts on page 64 and runs for twelve pages. And my bio is in the back where I officially state that I drink to much coffee… even though the case is really that I BUY too much coffee, since I never seem to finish a full cup before it gets cold.
Now, I usually try my best at not being girly about things. I mean, I swoon at romantic movies, I like to shop within reason, and I gossip. I’m a girl. But I hate massages, I hate pedicures/manicures, and getting all dolled up for a formal event is usually more problem than it’s really worth. So I’m not too girly.
But when I opened up the package, read the note the editor had written to me and slid among the pages and looked for the first time at my story in PRINT, I mean real PRINT… I started to cry.
I make a lot of mistakes. I don’t push myself hard enough, yet the majority of the time I’m probably too hard on myself. I’ve adopted this writing thing not only as a hopeful career but as an identity. It’s the topic of conversation among the voices in my head. It’s a plane of existence that I am still learning the rules of, where the gravity isn’t quite right. And frankly…I search for and welcome validation.
It’s nice to hear once in a while that, despite the missteps and mind-numbing duties of my day job and Life itself, my day dreams are attainable. That my hard work will pay off in one way or another if I just keep at it. That someone out there gives a damn. That I am capable of good work.