So I’m doing just as the title states. I’m going to put myself out there. I’m going to do this by applying to the Young Writer’s Conference. I’m not going to say where that is, but it’s at a college. What is it?? It’s a three day conference for young writers, hence the name haha. Basically there will be a ton of very accomplished writers there who are just dying to share their wealth of knowledge and advice with youngsters like myself. There will also be things like open mics, poetry slams, short story readings, and so on. I would stay in a dorm and attend seminars and workshops on poetry. However, and this is the whole putting myself out there part, I’m only applying to go. I had to send in an original poem of mine for them to judge and decide whether or not I can attend this event. This is a huge step for me. The last time that anyone was judging my poetry was two years ago at my last poetry slam. since then I’ve written a ton more poems, and I’ve changed my style quite a bit. I’m so nervous for this, and I’ve been going back and forth as to whether or not I should even apply, nevertheless, today my application was sent out. The last day that they except applications is February 17 (hence my milestone entitled Deadline), so I won’t know for quite a while if I got in or not. Just thinking about it makes me sick to my stomach.
When no one is there for me, poetry is. My notebook readily soaks up my tears, and it never minds if I never end up writing anything. I’ve sat there, pen in hand and static on the paper, hunched over my journal just letting the tears cascade over the contours of my face and onto the pale pages. I’ve heard the small noise of my own raindrops hitting the paper and blurring the azure lines that embrace me. In this fragile state my mind fills with white noise, but my diary never minds that no words stain the pages after I’m done. And when the hum clears, and the poetry pushes its way out of me, my notebook doesn’t complain when I press to hard, or my penmanship gets too sloppy. Poetry has always comforted me. It’s ironic how I can’t find the words to accurately describe how writing heals me.
So I hope that shows you just how important this whole thing is to me. This could change something, this could change me. I have an opportunity and for once, I refuse to let this one slip through my fingers. This time I’m going to do everything in my power to capture this opportunity. The only thing is that I’ve already done that. I’ve already given my 110% When I was editing my poem, when I was practicing my poem, when I still had that application in my hands there was something that I could do. That was me taking every chance I could and pouring myself into my work, but now there’s nothing I can do. I’ve done all that I can do and now it’s up to fate whether or not I’m accepted. That’s why I’m nervous. When it was still my turn to do all that I could I was fine because it was still up to me. Now, however, I’ve given up the reigns to fate. All I can do now is wait. So wish my luck, and I wish you all the best if luck as well.