It’s such a beautiful day here in Phoenix. I look at the weather reports for the Mid West and Back East (should that be capitalized like that? I don’t know) and I am baffled by the fact that people choose to live in such weather. Sure, it gets hot here. I would so rather be hot than buried under six feet of snow and ice. It’s about 80 degrees right now, although we do have a cold front on its way. I believe the high for Friday is 66. Brrr.
I am sitting in my office at home with the door and window open. I am blessed to work remote one day a week and wear my pajamas or a sundress or yoga pants the entire day. I sometimes think I get more done in this single day at home than I do in the other four in the office, but I do enjoy the camaraderie of the people in my office. So many interesting souls in the workplace.
While I have been quite successful in my job, and I like what I have learned there, I still feel this constant tug at my creative brain to go and write. Yesterday I mentioned to a friend that it is really the only thing I have wanted to do with myself since I was five years old. His response was “Then why are you not already a writer? That’s crazy.” Indeed it is. And in that craziness I have just submitted two applications to graduate schools to finally study writing.
I have applied to NYU and to Pacific University so far. They are wildly different programs and my experience so far has been just as expected. NYU sent me a few form emails about how they process 12,000 graduate applications a semester so I ought to be patient. Pacific University (which even though you might not have heard of it is quite respected in the writing community) has corresponded with me personally. I have spoken to them on the phone, and my manuscript is being read as we speak.
I am conflicted. And terrified. And my stomach is full of Mexican Jumping Beans. I do not wait well. Although now that I think of it, who does?
So I will wait. What if I get into both? What if I get into neither?
Uncertainty is not my friend, and so all I can do is fill myself with patience. And maybe knit a beret just in case. I mean, if I’m really going to be a writer, I must have a beret, right?
Instead of fussing over it, I think I’ll celebrate on my own this afternoon. Joe is in Las Vegas at a conference (where I will be joining him come Friday.) The boys are off at tennis lessons. And I have some writing to do.