Active hope is tiring. Only thing is, it's the only thing I've got.
Blue Ridge Novelist Retreat is this week. Last year it was fantastic. Fifty writers in the North Carolina mountains talking constantly about writing. Much published authors teaching exhilarating classes and becoming "real" as everyone shares meals and worship. This year, with two in college and two weddings around the corner, it just wasn't in the budget. I felt good about that sacrifice--until I started seeing facebook statuses from my friends at the retreat.
Why keep doing this? Just so I can say my computer memory is more full of original writing than yours? Honestly, that's about all I have to show for it. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of not knowing. I'm tired of keeping on, keeping on. Calling myself a writer, because that's what I do. But if there is no one to read what you write . . .
There's this deep terror that I'll be in this same place in 10 years, or 10 months, or 10 days, or even for the next 10 minutes.
I wish I could be more noble and say it doesn't matter. That just being able to write is enough for me. But I want validation for my time, my learning, my work. I want something to base my writing hopes on. And sometimes I just want to not think about it, stop networking, quit working out scenes, stop the writers e-mail loops, not try and figure out a way to learn more.
But not today. I'll go downstairs and write - at least today. I believe I have enough hope for today, but as for tomorrow . . .