Once upon a dream....
Last night was the first time I felt like I haven't made a mistake about the direction of my life. That maybe I was right, choosing writing as my career path. I'll always have doubts. If I ever get published, I will still be amazed that I actually accomplished my dream.
But last night sure helped me feel validated. I felt like I have a chance. That maybe I really can do this.
Yesterday was the launch party for Touchstones, the literary magazine I'm being published in. The event was a fancy dinner party, about an hour in length, where a select few writers being published in the magazine are asked to stand in front of an audience and read their piece aloud. Along with the selected readers, a professor from an out-of-state university was asked to judge the pieces and choose a first place and second place winner.
Not only was I asked to read my story, The Salt of the Earth, in front of this audience, but I received first place in the prose category.
I have never been so surrounded with love and praise and generosity and kindness as I did at this party. Dozens and dozens of people came up to me after all the readings were over. Some asked for me to autograph their copies of the magazine. Strangers hugged me in sympathy, told me I was an inspiration, since the story is about my mother's suicide and they felt compassion and pride toward the vulnerability I reveal in the piece. So many showered me with incredibly sweet compliments, saying my piece is beautiful, eloquent, amazing, heartrending, compassionate, powerful, immensely emotional, and more. The editor in chief told me my piece was his favorite in the entire magazine. He told me that I have a bright future. He even confessed that he reads my story continuously, and shows it to other people as "an example of incredible creative non-fiction". The professor who judged the pieces said that my writing is "masterful" and "expertly crafted", and holds a reader's attention "from the very first sentence to the end." One girl even gushed over my reading voice, saying how beautiful of a reader I am and that she'd happily listen to me read the phone book. I usually save comments like that for Chris Colfer and his ethereal angel voice, so hearing someone say that about me was surreal. The entire night was surreal. I felt overwhelmed with all the attention and kindness.
I never went to prom, or any school dance. I have never been asked on a single date. But last night I felt like a belle of the ball, even a Disney princess. The entire party feels like a dream that I made up in my head.
It might sound arrogant (who am I kidding this entire entry is boastful). But I wish I could sear all the kind things people said about my writing last night into my brain forever and ever. That way, whenever I get discouraged or get rejection letters, I can have the courage to keep trying. The strength to believe I'll make it, someday. All those people believe in me. I want to believe that strongly in myself, too.
Still, a small part of me wonders if I'd even have been published if I hadn't written about my mother's suicide. Is my success built on my mother's suffering? I'd give up every second of last night, trade it in a heartbeat, if I could have Mom alive again.
Today I'm also feeling terrible that I was so caught up in the whirlwind of praise that I didn't ask for the signatures of the other writers at the party who were being published. Especially a girl named Joanna, the one who praised my voice, who wrote a fantastic poem and deserved compliments in turn. I feel really guilty and crappy about it.
Even so. . .I hope Mom is proud of me. I'm going to hold onto the happiness I felt last night as long as I can.
But last night sure helped me feel validated. I felt like I have a chance. That maybe I really can do this.
Yesterday was the launch party for Touchstones, the literary magazine I'm being published in. The event was a fancy dinner party, about an hour in length, where a select few writers being published in the magazine are asked to stand in front of an audience and read their piece aloud. Along with the selected readers, a professor from an out-of-state university was asked to judge the pieces and choose a first place and second place winner.
Not only was I asked to read my story, The Salt of the Earth, in front of this audience, but I received first place in the prose category.
I have never been so surrounded with love and praise and generosity and kindness as I did at this party. Dozens and dozens of people came up to me after all the readings were over. Some asked for me to autograph their copies of the magazine. Strangers hugged me in sympathy, told me I was an inspiration, since the story is about my mother's suicide and they felt compassion and pride toward the vulnerability I reveal in the piece. So many showered me with incredibly sweet compliments, saying my piece is beautiful, eloquent, amazing, heartrending, compassionate, powerful, immensely emotional, and more. The editor in chief told me my piece was his favorite in the entire magazine. He told me that I have a bright future. He even confessed that he reads my story continuously, and shows it to other people as "an example of incredible creative non-fiction". The professor who judged the pieces said that my writing is "masterful" and "expertly crafted", and holds a reader's attention "from the very first sentence to the end." One girl even gushed over my reading voice, saying how beautiful of a reader I am and that she'd happily listen to me read the phone book. I usually save comments like that for Chris Colfer and his ethereal angel voice, so hearing someone say that about me was surreal. The entire night was surreal. I felt overwhelmed with all the attention and kindness.
I never went to prom, or any school dance. I have never been asked on a single date. But last night I felt like a belle of the ball, even a Disney princess. The entire party feels like a dream that I made up in my head.
It might sound arrogant (who am I kidding this entire entry is boastful). But I wish I could sear all the kind things people said about my writing last night into my brain forever and ever. That way, whenever I get discouraged or get rejection letters, I can have the courage to keep trying. The strength to believe I'll make it, someday. All those people believe in me. I want to believe that strongly in myself, too.
Still, a small part of me wonders if I'd even have been published if I hadn't written about my mother's suicide. Is my success built on my mother's suffering? I'd give up every second of last night, trade it in a heartbeat, if I could have Mom alive again.
Today I'm also feeling terrible that I was so caught up in the whirlwind of praise that I didn't ask for the signatures of the other writers at the party who were being published. Especially a girl named Joanna, the one who praised my voice, who wrote a fantastic poem and deserved compliments in turn. I feel really guilty and crappy about it.
Even so. . .I hope Mom is proud of me. I'm going to hold onto the happiness I felt last night as long as I can.