June 1...

Today is June 1st.  Today is the day I'm supposed to find out whether I've been accepted to the Appalachian Writer's Workshop.  Hypothetically, there is mail in my mailbox, and for now it is just going to sit there.  I could say that I don't want to go out in the rain, or I could say that I don't want to face the rejection, but in reality, I don't want it to not be there.  I don't want to walk out to the mailbox and not get any news. 

I checked my email in case I had received notification that way.  It didn't seem such a big deal for it to not be there, because they have never emailed the notifications of acceptance or denial.  However, to make the long (OK, probably more like 15 yard) walk to the mailbox, only to realize I have to wait at least another day would be agonizing.

So typing that first part gave me the courage to make the long walk and check, and as predicted, the letter was not there.  Somehow, not getting accepted to Hindman is worse than any other type of rejection.  I've been turned down several times by lit mags and that didn't hurt as bad as the simple thought of not going to Hindman.

Hindman is more than a writer's workshop; Hindman is home.  For the first time, I will be attending the Tinker Mountain Writer's Workshop this summer.  I am excited.  I am more than excited, I am elated.  However, it does not have the feeling of Hindman.  Knowing that I will be working with published authors and fellow writer wanna-be's leaves me all a flutter inside.  Hindman does more than give me flutters.  Hindman makes me feel a kinship, a connection, a fellowship, an acceptance that I lack in my life.

So, tomorrow, I will again have to convince myself to make the lonesome walk to the mailbox.  I will again open the latch and immediately close my eyes.  I will steady my breath and peek through slitted eyes to see if my home has reached out a hand to accept me.