This post is the result of a venti caramel macchiato at the local book store. There were some things I wanted to get done tonight, and I wasn’t too worried about the caffeine keeping me up all night. At this point, I wanted to share a few thoughts before hitting the sack.
Got some good advice from a writing friend about business cards, so I designed and ordered them tonight. It was fun. More fun probably because the house is quiet and I could think/process what I wanted. Excited for them to arrive and now I just need to find places to share them.
In other not exactly news but more under the category of “thought”, I am in conversation with an author whom I greatly respect regarding that thing they call MFA. This conversation and thought process is in the earliest stage, and at the moment I am enjoying the crass thought of calling myself Mutha Fuckin’ Autha… Yeah… I like dat. However, there is a price to pay for it, and is it the right thing for me? I’m a woman in the riptide of mid-life, and I’d like to not be wasting my time, effort, energy, hopes, dreams, and ca$h on a program that’s not right for me. I believe participating in an MFA would be of benefit, but to what extent? There’s no fear here, do not misunderstand. I can apply and they can shoot me down and I won’t cry or lose heart or the desire to write. Nothing can take that away. I can apply, be accepted, they can critique me down from here ’till the cows come home, but it still doesn’t answer the questions inside me: “Is this the right thing at the right time; Is this the best thing for me and my writing path?” Some might say, hey, you will never know until you try. I respect that. And it’s part of all those writing veggies I plan to throw into the juicer and see what comes out into my glass. Too sweet? Too bitter? Or “Why the hell did I put garlic in this?” Eventually the right recipe will be clear. And then we’ll see something!