masking & unveiling

I headed to Panera this afternoon to polish up the draft of my essay for the Real Simple contest before sending it off by the deadline tonight. Your prayers certainly worked — the words and phrases flowed with comparative ease. I wrote something straight from my heart, and it was as funny and real and compelling as anything I've ever put on paper.

I left before I was totally finished, knowing that after getting dinner together for the family, I'd head back to give it a final edit and send it off. When I got back to my table, coffee in hand, I opened up the file and read it with fresh eyes. I saw it for the first time as a whole piece — experiencing it as if it were someone else's story and not my own.

I saw that the piece was good — really good — perhaps not strong enough to win, but strong enough to get noticed. And without warning, I began to cry a little, right there over my computer and caramel latte.

In my answer to the question "what was the most important day of your life?," I had written about something I have only learned about myself this past year. And suddenly I knew it was too close, too fresh, too raw to be shared. It reveals a place in my heart that I am not ready for the eyes of discriminating editors — or perhaps even my own eyes — to peer into without consequence. And so, I packed up my words and my wounds and my things, and I headed back home to the people who love me most.

There will be other times and other opportunities. I am not disappointed. But I thought you would want to know.