Fingernail-biting-time

So... I read about this writers' retreat. And before my rational self could talk me out of it, I asked Sweetie and emailed the lady and wrote a check.

And it's this weekend! I leave in two days! And I'm FREAKING THE HELL OUT. Because I'm not a writer, I'm a teacher. I'm a mom. I don't deserve to spend a weekend in the quiet, scribbling in notebooks. How ridiculous. What nerve. What gall to even fancy myself a writer.

I started organizing some of my poems for submission, and I put the published ones into their own folder (most places won't take previously published work). And I realized that of the things I submitted this last year or so, I actually got more published than were rejected. And I did win a contest put on by the Sacramento Poetry Center. Okay, actually, I won both first and third prize in that. I've given multiple readings and had positive receptions.

Maybe I'm a real writer, maybe I'm not. But the check is written, the childcare is arranged, and I'm going.