I was eight in the Brushy Mountains of North Carolina where my siblings and I had gotten over chicken pox. My mom rubbed on calamine lotion, ran warm oatmeal baths, and hit rewind on the worn-out copy of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast we all could sing by heart at week’s end. Soothed by the creek, and the cooking of our great aunt Hessie, (with whom we were staying), we survived the tumultuous week and were grateful.
Since last summer, I have pitched my third manuscript twenty-seven times to potential literary agents. Twenty-six times I have either been ghosted or formally rejected. At first, this process was very hard. Rarely does the reply (if any, at all) give insight into the rejection, but when there is a bit — it is gold!
Last week I went to a writing conference in Franklin, Tennessee. You might’ve heard of the author who hosted it, she is one of my mom’s favorites, Karen Kingsbury. It was a great time of learning and dreaming. I met some outstanding writers with hopes and dreams similar to my own.