It’s not often that I walk into work and discover my day has been made.
The night was pretty normal. Started on the penultimate chapter of Diners at the Memory’s End, and managed to get about six hundred words in before sleep started calling. I’ve been hitting the mattress about 10:30, or there about, and last night was no different.
Last night I did dream, and I could remember most of it. A damn silly thing it was, too, because the majority of it dealt with me losing a shopping cart–or having it taken, I can’t be certain–and then being bitched at by people over it. In particular, one person wanted to know if my wallet was safe, if all my cards were okay, and that I should call all the companies and make certain no one was using the numbers. The whole damn thing was like that, and it seemed like no matter where I went, I was being “reminded” about losing the cart and checking my cards.
As you might imagine, waking up was something of a strange occurrence. With dreams like that, it makes you question what you’re doing, and what’s going to come at you through the rest of the day. And Fridays are long days for me, since I have to head back to The Real Home after work at The Hole is finished.
Once into work I did what I usually do: bring up the computer, launch all my programs, and open my mail. That’s where I saw it:
The thing that made my day.
It’s not a lot; some might say it’s nothing. But to me it was fantastic.
I was invited to a lunch, and the invitation came from someone outside my area.
Oh, sure, that sounds like a whole lot of nothing. But if you knew what it’s like here, how there seems to be a complete lack of care for how I’m doing, then getting something like this is a big deal to me. It’s almost an affirmation that someone here does think about me, and not about just how I’m doing on my projects.
In many ways writing is like this job. You do so much of it in silence, in solitude, alone with only your thoughts. You work on your stories, you create, you edit, you polish, you throw it out there for all to see.
Sure, you have your writing friends, you have a little group of people who ask you how things are coming with your novel or story, if you’ve finished it, or you’ve completed your edit, whether you’ve sold it or self-published.
There is something a writer desires, however. It’s when they’re completed from an unexpected source. It’s when, from out of the blue, an unexpected source asks you if they can read your manuscript, they read it, and they fall in love with it.
It’s that moment of serendipity when you realize someone cares about your craft beyond mundane things like, “How many books have you sold?”.
Little slices of time, such as these, are what making getting up in the morning exciting.
Now . . . can I have more, please?