|photo by skibriye|
The deadline was Monday...at 5:00 p.m. and I got off work at 3:45...and I had just "found" the poem on Saturday.
Have you ever looked in an old journal, found some writing, and you barely recognize it as yours? You read it, and you wonder, When did I write this? What was I thinking about when I scribbled this down?
I participated in a writing marathon on Saturday, and before leaving the house, I grabbed one of my
Impressed, I was. Okay, it was not perfect, but since I usually don't do poetry, if it makes sense and the rhythm is workable and there is some kernel of imagery or relevance, I crown it Pulitzer Prize material...
(After all, I ain't no Shay or Marcia Gaye. I don't masquerade as Mama Zen. I'm a writer of prose, for crying out loud.)
And I did say it out loud. I had done some minor tweaking, made sure it did not go beyond the 15-line limit, and got my envelope ready. (Since it was for writers who live within 50 miles of St. Louis, I knew I was not competing with Shay or Mama Zen. Marcia was another story...) When I dropped my submission off (45 minutes before the deadline--so early, I wondered if I really deserved to keep my tiara as Princess), I chatted up the front desk guy and another guy who was sitting there in the lobby and who was obviously just wasting time.
The work-avoider paused, his arm elbow-deep in a bag of chips, after I had explained to the front desk man why I was there. He had looked up some name on some directory he had--after I refused to just hand him the envelope--made a call, and was told that the PIC (person in charge) would be downstairs momentarily.
The chip guy looked me up and down--made note of my swirled-up hair (from rushing to feed the parking meter and racing along the cobblestone street while simultaneously scanning for street numbers), made note of my somewhat funky outfit (long, flowing skirt to hide the possibly-hairy legs) and the definitely funky scarf (to camouflage the flab) and asked the question that made me stop my mindless chatter with the guy perched behind the front desk.
"Are you an artist?"
And without a moment's hesitation, I said, "Yes. I'm a writer."
And for me, that doesn't need an exclamation point. It deserves a period because--for me--it's matter-of-fact. It's just the way it is. I can gesticulate and talk all day about the exhilaration of writing, and how excited I am about NaNoWriMo this year, and how much fun I had writing a "Fifty Shades of Santa" story and how jazzed I get whenever the WWWPs meet (they're my writing critique peeps), but if you want just the facts, there they are: I am an artist. I am a writer...
Are you planning on doing NaNoWriMo this year? (And if not, why not?) Are you planning on submitting to any anthologies this fall? (And if so, which ones?) Are you planning on trying to wrestle my tiara away so you can reign as Princess of Procrastination? (And if so, what are you gonna bring to this rumble? 'Cause I'm reeeeal good.)