It was summer when I went to the writing conference. There was a rumor that only one student per class would be picked by the teaching author to visit with an agent/editor. But it was only a rumor.
But I knew it was true.
I had known of its truth for three years.
I cried each time I was passed up, knowing I wasn’t good enough, wondering if my invested time was wasted.
This year I hoped it would be different.
As I read, I hid behind my glasses, hoping the teacher couldn’t see the sweat forming underneath their rims.
It was quiet when I finished. All my peers’ comments were good. A few suggestions, but not many.
Had I done it?
I waited, but nothing out of the ordinary happened. My turn was over. It was someone else’s chance to read. I just had to try to keep calm, keep the crushing disappointment from overtaking me.
Time passed. I didn’t hear any news. It was happening again, but I wouldn’t let it get me down. I wouldn’t shed any tears.
I grabbed my things, tucking them away, getting ready to go. The assistant inched her way over to me, smiled, and began to speak.
Her lips moved. I could hear her words, but they didn’t make sense.
My ears weren’t the only things broken. Something was wrong with my feet. I knew because with each step I took, they didn’t touch the ground.
My friend noticed the difference too. She was the first to ask me. I had warned her about the sniveling, she should just expect it. We writers are emotional beings. But I couldn’t help it. I started to sob.
But it was different this time. Because I felt like I was a little bit closer. Because I had overcome what I had wanted to for so long. Because I knew I could do it. Somehow, the tears were okay today.