Always when I am at the beach, I’m reminded how big the world really is. Hearing the vast ocean crash and watching the horizon that stretches farther than my screen-weary eyes can see makes me feel tiny, like a speck. Inevitably I marvel at the scope of the universe, the secrets of space, the wonder of the sea, the size of the earth and it’s many continents—and more practically, the billions of people that exist. I am only the teeniest fraction of all that. This summer especially, I’m feeling inconsequential and left behind. This year has been huge for the Femmes. Many of these amazing writers have been offered contracts and are soon to be officially published. Yay, Ladies! So incredibly proud of you! So honored to work with you, and call you my friends! And yet, of course, I’d have to call myself a robot if I didn’t feel the inevitable tug of worry and doubt: what about me? When will it be my turn? It’s so easy to beat myself up: I don’t write fast enough, I’m missing a fab hook, I targeted the wrong places, I didn’t write to the market, I broke too many rules…

Photo courtesy of Jenna Blue, 2013

Of course, I’m making writing analogies as I sit in my beach chair, feeling smaller than ever. I am a speck, a grain of sand, one author among zillions, fighting against the tide. And any mention of a speck, brings me directly to the Who’s in Who-ville.

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