So, it's Winter Wheat time, and I've already been to sessions. Isn't that great? Total number of sessions I went to last year whilst in charge? 0. I'll admit, I've been to some that didn't really speak to me, just because they weren't a good fit for my current writing life, but I've also been to some that really helped my mind in some way. Actually, I've walked away with at least a little something from every workshop.
Tonight is a reading by Dan Chaon and David Baker, which will be fun. Currently, I should be doing a bit of work, but naturally I'm not. I'll do a bit in a few minutes; drafts and whatnot. My head feels sort of hot, though, like it's drunk in too much noise and thought. It's better than last night's feeling, which was utterly exhausted. I couldn't even meet friends at a restaurant, not for dinner or for afters. Just too bloody tired. In fact, I almost passed out from lack of sleep and lack of food.
Today, I wonder, why am I a writer? What has made me choose this as the core of my career? Well I remember the time when I was meant to decide direction, in the later portion of college as I prepared to grad school. Why writing, and not dance? Why not something else like Lit, or even science? I am at that point in my writing life when I've been out of grad school for a few years, and I'm wondering what I'm fit for, and how many stories I will be able to tell, how many experiences to convey. I somehow need to know why I've made this choice in order to continue it. Do I deserve to be a writer? Is that what I'm supposed to be? My 28th birthday is less than a week away. Has that 28-year-old, white, single, female entity with brown hair and blue eyes made the right decision?