|My hotel bed, where I lay for many hours this morning with muddled, joyful thoughts|
I can't persuade myself that writing is honest work. It's great fun and I love it.
For one thing, it's the only way I can get to sit down.
A few months ago, a couple of my writer friends sent me notices about Hedgebrook and persuaded me to apply for a residency, so I did -- at the very last minute -- and took no notice afterward. Yesterday afternoon, in the middle of a lacrosse game, I glanced away from the game and opened an email that said this:
Congratulations! We are pleased to inform you that the Selection Committee has awarded you a 2015 residency at Hedgebrook.
Having narrowed the original 1466 applicants to a final group of 102, the committee awarded 40 residencies for 2015. You are one of these select few.
I am honestly stunned and have remained so for nearly two days. I woke this morning in the hotel room in San Diego where Henry and I were sleeping and had what I call morning madness, the thoughts that plague you in those dark, dark hours before dawn. How will I pull this off? There must be some mistake! Surely there are others more deserving? It might be impossible for me to accept this! What kind of a mother leaves her kids for three weeks to WRITE? Surely this is a joke! I'm selfish for being so excited. You know the drill, right? The lazy, bourgeois byzantine rambling thoughts of the morning hours. Then came three lacrosse games and a three hour drive back to Los Angeles.
Apparently, I actually did get a Hedgebrook Writing Residency. Holy mackerel! My gratitude knows no bounds, but holy moly! Thank you Hedgebrook!