The edge. I end up here more often than I'd like to admit. When I find myself teetering at the brink, it derives from my proclivity for over-commitment (in labor and emotion). Right now I'm staring down the barrel of the semester and grinding my teeth into paste.
But the spines of anxiety needling my skin this week are also born of a looming, much-anticipated event: my first writer's conference.
Late Thursday night I'll arrive in San Francisco to rub elbows with a mass of editors, agents, and authors (published and aspiring like myself). For me, this step has moon-landing significance. No longer will I be staring at the shiny mirror of the writer's world and wanting my reflection to belong among the crowd of authors who I admire. The conference means I'm through the looking glass. Once I cross to the other side, I half expect to find Alice waiting for me with a smile and a knife to bury in my belly.
So at the moment I'm tottering, half-drunk with doubt, and wondering whether the bottom of the chasm might not be so bad.