It's a week now. Officially. I've been reassessing in light of the news I got last Wednesday that, yes, I had finally done it. It was a story, it was what I wanted to say, and it was said well.
Huh.
I've molted the old restricting skin of the writer who thought she could do it, but hadn't done it to her own satisfaction yet. I'm morphing into a new form now, under a wet and wrinkled skin, no idea what the new shape will be. I'll be as surprised as anyone.
I have no idea either if this is the more significant turning point, more significant than publication. Could be. It feels almost exactly like finding out the difference between fake love, the one you took for love because you didn't know, you didn't have any idea--and then the real one comes along. Suddenly it makes no difference that nine out of ten classmates had no idea what I was on about, because liftoff has been achieved and I'm flying now, waving to all those still on the ground. I probably won't understand when most of them achieve liftoff. After all, a great deal of published literature is not to my taste. My earlier frustrations can be seen in a new and brighter light. They now make a weird kind of sense.
I have to think about this more.
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