I’m submitting to a writing contest – again. While rewriting a section of my memoir to fit the contest requirements, feelings of dread washed over me, followed by feelings of euphoria. I’d had those feelings before. But, where and when? Ah, yes. The Seventh Grade Dance.
Will the contest judges like my piece?
Will any of the boys ask me to dance, in spite of the fact I am a head taller than all of them?
Will the judges read my piece with an objective mind?
Will the boys see me as a good dancing partner?
Is what I’ve written too mundane for today’s publishing world? (I’ve never dug myself out of prison with a sardine can, nor have I smuggled conflict diamonds from Africa into the USA.)
Aren’t I an outstanding dancer by reputation? Haven’t I taken tap and ballet lessons for years? Doesn’t everyone know I can even follow Daddy’s led and he never does two combinations in a row? Yes, I can dance.
Will my writing friends see me a serious writer, in spite of the fact I cannot even win a writing contest?
What if no one asks me to dance?
Should I even tell anyone I’ve submitted a piece to yet another contest?
Will I tell my parents that I hid in the bathroom during every slow dance to avoid rejection?
Is it really necessary for me to establish a blog, a website, a domain, and a Facebook account to demonstrate I am serious about writing? (The domain I set up says that I am a dog trainer instead of an author. I did something terribly wrong.)
Will I know the dances for the music they play? The Hully Gully, the Twist, the Stroll? Why do I have to learn all those dances when all I want to do is ballroom dance?
Will I cry if I get another rejection even though I’m an adult?
Will I cry my twelve-year-old self to sleep because no one danced with me?