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Yesterday I received an email telling me that a story I submitted to a journal was accepted for publication. I wasn’t expecting the email. It’s been five weeks since I submitted it. That is an incredibly quick turn around for a journal.

I sat and looked at it, wanting to jump up and down, but afraid that the email might disappear if I did that. After 90 seconds or so, I threw my arms in the air and yelled “YES!!!” Then I forwarded the message to my writing group. Not good enough. The room was silent. I called Tracy, one of the members of my group. I told her that my insides were dancing around and I needed to hear a human voice. She said she had just started to write to me. She was so happy for me. I could hear excitement in her voice.

Angela, Tracy, and Sara — members of my Writing Group

Then I emailed everyone I knew who has been supporting my writing work. And the congratulations started rolling in. I did jump up and down then, and danced, and had a big shit-eating grin on my face. I went to a Holiday Stroll in my little village of Montclair. Whenever someone, innocently, asked “How are you?” I responded with, “You really want to know?” No one is going to say no when someone with a huge smile on her face is actually willing to tell you. So I told my great news to perfect strangers.

This is the thing: Writing as a profession is a second career for me. I retired from my first career after 35 years, moved to Paris, and started taking writing classes. I wrote a memoir: Saving Sara A Memoir of Food Addiction. I thought, at the time, that would be the end of it. Writing is a bug. Once it fully resides in you, that’s it, the end, you’re hooked. I started thinking of myself as an author, a writer. I’ve been taking writing classes and working with my writing group on my voice. Was I going to attempt to write fiction? or non-fiction? I’m 76 years old. Maybe if I was younger, I would spend more time on the craft of novel writing, or short stories. My imagination isn’t accustomed to going in that direction. I consistently fall short. I love writing this Substack and articles for anyone who asks. I’m comfortable with my non-fiction voice. I wrote a short story about baseball—which I also love. It was based on a true event. I knew exactly which journal I wanted to submit it to. The Under Review. I had met the editors at AWP 23 (Association of Writers and Writing Programs). I played ping pong on the smallest table I’ve seen with one of the editors. I shot a hole in one into the tiniest basket you can imagine. They gave me a coffee cup as a reward. We laughed, and high fived, and had a grand time.

Playing ping pong at AWP 23

I worked hard on my story. I revised it at least 30 times with the help of my amazing writing group: Tracy, Angela, Bob, and Christie. When I thought I was going to hate it if I saw it one more time, I decided it was finished. I submitted it five days before the deadline for the Winter Issue.

My prize for a hole in one!

Yesterday morning, I was sitting on my couch in my home in Oakland, California, missing Paris (although I’m told it is REALLY cold there). I wasn’t depressed, just blah. Everyone knows blah. No color in one’s world. Who cares what happens for the rest of the day. My little foster kittens were tearing up everything in sight and I didn’t have the energy to stop them. Then the email arrived from The Under Review.

It was like a shot of adrenaline. Someone who counts, who publishes stories, likes my story. Now I want to write again. Ok, so what if I’m retired but working full-time. And yes, writing is a pretty lonely enterprise. I suppose it’s a bit like winning a slam, you shine under the spotlight. Then you start all over again. Maybe I’m seeded a little bit higher but considering who’s out there writing, I’m guessing I’m seeded about 10,000! And that’s ok. Because I’m seeded. I’ve written one book and I’ve started on my collection of short stories!

Now the California sunshine is calling. Gotta get this adrenaline moving around.

A bientôt,

Sara