I am back.
I just spent the last eight days sequestered away in a lodge, attending lectures and writing workshops. It was my dream.
Except for the missing of the kids and the husband, of course.
In some regards, it would have been better if I had done this right after my undergrad: before all these responsibilities piled on.
But on the other hand, I am more determined now.
I've done enough things that I didn't like to know for sure this is what I do.
I am less apt to give up when it gets hard.
So maybe it wouldn't have been better, it just would have been easier.
Sometimes, I think that the last ten years of my life has been wasted, because I never moved forward toward my goal. I think that, because I think in terms of stories and plots.
But this past week, I realized none of it was a waste. We have built a home and a family. I worked jobs necessary because of life's demands. I have acquired interview skills and empathy. I have made mistakes worth writing about. And I have been writing this whole time.
Now, I will work on writing more, and for publication. But that doesn't mean the writing that preceded it was for naught. It wasn't.
And I'm glad that old writing wasn't workshoppped, because this whole time-word by word, line by line-I have been molding my craft.
My mentor compared writing to molding clay in a potter's wheel. That's what I've been doing. And now, after figuring out on my own what does and doesn't become me, I'm doing it with direction.