Just maybe

“We, and I think I’m speaking for many writers, don’t know what it is that sometimes comes to make our books alive. All we can do is to write dutifully and day after day, every day, giving our work the very best of what we are capable. I don’t think that we can consciously put the magic in; it doesn’t work that way. When the magic comes, it’s a gift.”
—Madeleine L’Engle

It's true. I wonder everyday if what I'm writing is good enough, interesting enough, worthy enough. I dreamed that one of my short stories received an honorable mention in a particular contest. When I woke, feeling jubilant no doubt, I realized that I never submitted that story to said contest. I'd let the deadline pass, assumed another rejection. My dream woke me up (no pun intended). What I really let pass was an opportunity.

They'll be more contests. Not all is lost. But maybe my subconscious is telling me that it's possible. Everyday I pray, not for success or fame or bestselling novels, but for belief. To dare believe I can do this. Perhaps it's working? I'm pushing myself to break through?

I'm not sure that what I'm doing is groundbreaking. To be honest, that's not really my intention. All I truly want is to believe. Yes, that and both the liberty and leisure to able to write more. My whole life maybe. This sounds so pseudo-inspirational. But to me it's actually very important. Regardless of what happens.

So I won't stop. I've been rewriting my novel and discovering all the things it didn't have the first time around. Now it does. It brings me personal happiness each day. In this endeavor that's all I can hope for. If not for that, I don't have much. I'm glad I'm learning to understand this.