So, you remember how I mentioned that I was just waiting for it? For my neuroses to wake up and decide to feed on me like a horde of starving undead?
Apparently, the cow bell has rung, and the more-intact among the undead have already sat down to dinner. In short, it’s feeding time, and My Concentration, Self-Confidence, and Sanity are on the menu. Because tomorrow, I meet with Canadian poet Sonnet L’Abbe.
But I’m not just meeting her, oh no. I’m sitting down with her to discuss my writing, as well as what I want to do with it. I will either come away from this meeting on cloud nine, or I will be bawling my face off. There really isn’t a whole lot of in-between; either I’ll be encouraged by someone who has broken into the industry I want to be part of, and done what I hope to . . . or I’ll feel like I’ve fallen short of where I want to be, where I expected to be (and I’ll probably also feel rather disappointed in myself).
And I’m trying to logic my way out of the very serious case of Squirmy Guts I’ve got going on . . . but no dice. It doesn’t matter that anything she has to say to me is going to be professional in nature; it doesn’t matter that her comments won’t be a reflection on me as a person; and the fact that anything she can tell me — about my writing, about the publishing industry, about whether or not an MFA is a good fit for me — will be helpful doesn’t make our impending meeting any less nerve-wracking.
Everyone around me is trying to pet the anxious fluffy ball of OMG that I have become, and I appreciate the effort. But this is one of those things that can’t be prepared for, which I think is the main reason I’m so hung up on this. There’s nothing I can really do except walk into this meeting with an open mind, a list of questions, and a baby sitter for my ego, who will need to stay home.
Because I really am grateful for this — I wouldn’t cancel the meeting, or not show up, or wish that I hadn’t heard of this. Getting to workshop my writing with a pro is an amazing opportunity, and I recognize that. So, really, the only thing that’s left to do for tomorrow is pull out my lucky knickers and favourite glitter — because I need all the confidence I can scrape up for this, and you have to have a lot of confidence to wear glitter without looking like a child or Halloween Land escapee. (Or a Disney princess. Or flat-out insane. Looking like a faery queen is basically the best possible outcome.)
(I’m just babbling now in an attempt to distract myself. Do me a favour and just roll with it.)
I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.