So I’m writing from one of my favorite non-home places, from my favorite couch in this place. Tonight it’s quiet. All I can here is the rain hitting the roof, and a tuba, saxophone, and melodica playing in the next room. I’m supposed be with them, part of our twice-monthly practices. But instead I’m sinking into this favorite couch of mine, typing and writing away. Editing and revising.
In all honesty, I’ve made some great progress tonight in my writing–the sad, small collection I’ve pieced together for my application. The deadline is approaching far too soon, and I realized I’m not as far along as I’d like. (Hence the couch sitting rather than the music making for me.) Sometimes you just need a small changed in scenery. One where you won’t fall back into old lazy habits and routines. But also not one new or foreign enough that you’d be distracted by every small thing. (Though I will admit I wouldn’t mind having one if not both of the cats purring next to me.) Sometimes you just need a deep orange couch.
It’s becoming real. Soon a group of people, all published writers, will be sitting around critiquing my work. Using it, and whatever potential for improvement they might credit me with, to deem me worthy of their acceptance. It’s nerve racking. As other writers and creatives will tell you, it’s like stripping naked before the crowd. Just standing there as they make their judgments. It’s as raw as telling someone that you love them for the first time. But every great thing, and every tiny hope for love, is truly worth the risk, right?