I just found out that another one of my pieces has been accepted for publication.
That means that I’m two for three, or batting .667. That’s a monstrous number in baseball. Not even the great Ted Williams ever hit much higher than .400. (Notice that I didn’t add an asterisk. That means that all writing was completed without steroids or other performance-enhancing drugs.)
I forwarded the acceptance letter to W, who called to tell me how proud she is of me. “Are you so excited?” she asked.
“I’m hiding under the covers with the cat,” I told her.
She knew to let me be. Actually, I wasn’t under the covers with the cat. I was lying on top of them with the cat immobilized by fear.
I had told W last night that I need to start working on a query letter and book proposal. I explained how everything is right there in my sights, almost in my grasp.
“That’s awesome,” she said.
“Scary-awesome,” I replied.
That pretty much sums up my feelings on moving forward with my writing. It’s awesome to think that I’m close — closer than I’ve ever been — to realizing my bucket list goal of writing a book and having it published.
But scary, too. Memoir is so very personal and soul-baring. It’s like writing naked. Or more accurately, it’s like writing naked about your naked self. I am more prude than nudist, and therein lies the problem.
Crap, I should have just written about vampires.