It is March now. I continue to write. I harbor few notions of the outcome, and that's a good place to be. For now. I operate in a vacuum of delusion -- that I'll write something someone wants to read.
I've asked several people to read my draft. A few have finished. I've placed an obligation on them. I'm requesting their time. And in my life, time is very precious.
One reader wrote me a thank you note. I was incredibly humbled. I should be thanking her (which I did; a bottle of wine is forthcoming). A college buddy apologized for not having started sooner. She has two pre-schoolers, and she's a stay-at-home mom. Again, I had to thank her for even saying yes.
In the scheme, they are a sympathetic audience. Reading to be nice, and often, to satisfy their curiosity. It's a look inside me, bumps and soft spots. Artists, you are a special group of fragile hearts. May I live up to the inclusion.