It’s been two and a half weeks since finding out I was a finalist
in Writer’s of the Future. Sometime in the next week and a half I’ll find out
the final results. I’ll have to admit, every day that goes by, I’m a little
more nervous than I was.
When Writer’s of the Future posted the names of the eight
finalists on their blog, I was excited. I cyber-stalked a few of them. A couple
have already published. So you know, I’m like, not intimidated at all, right?
Well I knew intellectually what it meant to get this far in
the contest. From what I understand, they have somewhere between 800 and 1200
entries per quarter. So to be at the top of that list is pretty good for the
self-esteem. Even if I don’t place, my story made it to the top eight and that
rocks! But last night, they posted a list of all the finalists, semi-finalists
and honorable mentions. I read down the list and it just kept going, and going,
and going… Suddenly I started to realize just how many people 800-1200 must be.
And the names on that page that kept scrolling were the very best of all of
them – just a fraction of the stories submitted. It sort of made it real, if
that makes any sense. I was terribly humbled to be included in that top group
of writer’s in any capacity.
So now I wait. And I’m really not very good at waiting. I
know so many people who are so good at patience. My neighbor
across the street is one of them. Nothing seems to ruffle her. You should see
her with kids, she’s amazing. Patience seems to be one of her primary virtues. I’m
so not like that. I’ll keep chewing at my fingernails and try not to snip at my
poor kids while they just try to get through their own day.
My husband likes to remind me that whether I’m good at waiting or
not, the same amount of time will pass. Worry won't alter the time stream. I’ll still have to wait, so I might as well not
worry.
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