If we were having coffee, I would talk about the changing season. The fast pace with which all the leaves have fallen out, how the streets below are covered with brown crunchy leaves, and how quickly the new red leaves have filled in the void above.
I would have thought out loud – is there a hint, a message there?
* * *
I’d tell you that I’ve been contemplating submitting a couple of stories for publication. And it scares me to no end.
My blog feels like home, and writing here feels like a warm embrace. But out there, a publication looks like a warzone, and every character I type feels like an arrow that’s ready to rip apart my soul.
As I refill our mugs, I’d confess to you, that for six months the stories have gathered dust – idling on a word editor, waiting for me to send that email I drafted so long ago.
High on caffeine, I’d hear your encouraging words. What’s the worst that could happen? If it gets rejected, it’s okay. I’m here. I’ll listen.