In my previous post, I wrote a bit about investing in kids and in literacy.
This time, I'm thinking about investing in me.
I'm very excited to be attending the Rhyming Picture Book Revolution conference in New York in a couple of weeks. At the same time, I'm feeling the pressure of what it means for me to buy plane tickets, pay the conference fee, and reserve a hotel (more of a hostel, but still). This is a financial undertaking on behalf of a dream.
At this point, there are no guarantees that I'm going to make a living as a writer. I have my skills, my background, and my determination. I'm working against my own resistance, building a portfolio, sending out my clips and my work, getting paid for some of it. I'm reaching out to other writers and editors to find a community I can connect with.
But when I get practical about it, it's not like I'm making something that anyone can hold in their hands. I come from a family of builders and engineers, people whose jobs make things, and who work jobs that pay the bills.
I'm still in that ether, where I can see the destination, vaguely, through the haze, but there is so much unknown between here and there. So much that depends on me, my ability, my persistence--but also on others' opinions of my work. Is it good. Will it sell. Will it be accepted.
So it's a leap that I keep on making. I leapt into writing full-time. (Well, part-time, since I'm the primary caretaker of my boys, so I have to write around their schedules.) I leapt into a new genre: children's literature. I leapt into paying good money to try to build that community and further this nascent dream into something tangible.
I know that I am extremely lucky to have this opportunity, and I am grateful to my supportive husband and generous family that have made this possible. The pressure is on. I need to make good on their investment in me.