The only way that I can successfully break into the business of writing and make any kind of living doing it, is to network and attend writing functions. This weekend, I plan to attend the Virginia Festival of the Book in Charlottesville. The line-up of workshops at the Omni in C-Ville includes sessions with authors and agents. This is how I make connections. It’s free and only three hours away. Most publishing events of this magnitude are way out of my price range. Free. Close. I. MUST. attend.
That means time away from everyone. It means dropping my baby off with my parents for something just for me on a day when I’m not working.
Yes, but I haven’t had a day alone in two years; Tim works every weekend, I tell myself.
My inner bitch critic answers back, your parents are essentially raising your daughter, and you want to drop her off YET AGAIN? What kind of parent are you anyway? You went through so much to have this child and you won’t even spend the weekend with her?
I stew in the boiling broth of guilt for awhile before I respond vehemently to my trusty inner bitch critic, Piss off! I’m a writer.
It turns out that Mom and Dad are delighted to keep Kindred, and Tim is encouraging me to go after giving me a modicum of crud about the lack of time alone we’d had lately.
Ha! My inner bitch critic shouted victoriously.
I wavered, then rallied.
Ha, nothing! I responded back to her. Pick a cheek, and pucker up! I’m going to Charlottesville!
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