I wanted to win.  I'd entered a contest for authors who had published books independently.  I thought I had a really good chance. I'd hired a talented editor to tighten all the loose spots, and the designer who crafted the cover is a gifted artist.  I'd had a lot of positive responses to the book, so mailed out the finished product with high hopes.  When the winners were announced, though, I hadn't even placed. In the past I'd entered other contests and not won. I didn't really think much about it, actually.  I always told myself that simply entering contests was noteworthy--that I hadn't stopped trying--that was success in and of itself.  But I was struggling this time around. I wanted external validation, not merely the internal affirmation that I could provide myself.  As I grappled with the feelings of disappointment, I was able to bring myself back to my foundation--words--and the artistry of piecing them together.

Remember dodge ball?  You may be too young.  The game might be considered the rudimentary form of paint ball.  The object is to hit as many people as you can with a large rubber ball that stings when it hits one's face, or back, or leg.  I used to hate it when it was time for dodge ball as a kid in elementary school.  I tried to get "hit" early so that I didn't have to be pursued.  And when I was forced to be the one in pursuit, I could hardly stand throwing that ugly, rust-colored ball at the other kids.  I always lost.  

I am shy.  My friends know me as a "raging" introvert.  I don't mind being alone.  In fact, I spend great quantities of time at my desk. If writing was "just writing" I'd have it made.  But if an author wants readers, well it's a different ball game these days.  One needs to learn how to market.  I'm not one easily coaxed out of her comfort zone. Not long ago in an effort to learn more about marketing tools, I attended a seminar for self-published authors attempting to promote their books.  One of the women attendees from New York stated she had dressed up as a chicken and stood in front of a large bookstore in Manhattan to promote her latest recipe book. There was no way that I could do that.  No that wasn't me.  I left early.

She carried a soiled queen-sized bedspread.  I noted magenta and blue paisley swirls.  At one time, the bedspread must have been lovely.  I noticed it was still quite puffy, and it probably had never been washed.  She carried a large ziploc bag that was stuffed with her belongings--probably everything she owned.  The bag was smudged with fingerprints.  Her eyes reflected pain and anger. She yelled obcenities at me.  I dared not go close to her as she stated she would hurt me.  She threatened to hurt herself.  "What do you want me to do?  I'm homeless, somebody beat me up.  I don't have anywhere to go," she screamed.

The other night I dreamed.  It was a dream for my daughter who had just turned 31, and I sensed the message was for me as well.

 In the dream, my daughter's husband came to her and said, "I offer you Nutella Friendship." (Nutella is a deliciously smooth chocolate spread with hazelnut flavoring).  Then I observed my daughter sitting on a bicycle.  She was not pedaling, but rather sitting on the seat balancing perfectly and performing very intricate and specific arm, hand and feet motions.