You know how that poem goes, don't know the author, it may not be even a poem but it has always resonated with me:
"Inside my winter there is an endless summer?"or something like that.
I tailor such quotes to fit my own brain.
Well, inside me there is this 3 year old. She doesn't 'adult' well. I love how "adult" has now become a verb, much like many other words. I remember Grandgirl saying to me one time" "Oh Grandma, don't harsh my mellow". Loved the phrase, adapted it for my own use.
So I work madly on this 2,000 word article/essay request that came in, I loved the process, even the intense editing involved and I submitted it. And, and, and, the editorial team send me individual emails raving about it.
I mean what do real adults do when this kind of response is elicited? Sit quietly, I imagine and get cracking on their next oeuvre? Sounds very mature and responsible and grown-up, right?
Me? I race around the house and then out to the meadow a la Rocky pumping the fists and then I PM Daughter and Grandgirl. A humble brag. And then run around again, just for the hell of it.
Each time a piece of my writing is well received, I can't believe the feeling I get. That crayoning 3 year old escapes and races around in delirious excitement.
I observed similar in an author friend today who's been nominated for a major award. "57 congratulatory emails and climbing", he sez, "And I'm sitting outside a small convenience store at the edge of nowhere, syphoning their wifi, unable to leave in case I might miss another."
May this feeling never leave me, may it encourage me and sustain me.