This is the week.
Nicholl Fellowship entrants hold their breaths and call in sick so they can camp out at the mailbox and wait on that much anticipated Greg Beal letter in the envelope with a little gold Oscar on it.
Sadly, most of us 4800 or so writers will rip open the envelopes, exhale with the expulsion power of a rapid fire balloon fart and clutch the daggers of bitter reality that plunge into our chests, burst our bubbles and deflate our egos.
We'll pout, cry, swear off competitions and walk around with big L's on our foreheads, avoiding eye contact with everyone we boasted to that we were SURE this was the year we'd advance.
My self imparted advice? Well, if you happen to get a "regrettably" letter, mourn sufficiently and get over it. That's right, Self. It's not a crap meter. You're a good writer. You didn't lose. You can't lose what you never had. You just didn't advance.
Besides, Self, you have a hundred readers and just as many friends who will most likely shower you with sympathy gifts -- jigsaw puzzles, comic books, Captain & Tenille CD's, cheese, clothes pins and honey mustard.
Okay, Self, so some of your friends are kind of odd.
Ah! Here's an idea, Self. Make a list of consolation gifts just in case. You know, kind of like a bridal registry only more like a pity party registry of your favorite things -- Smurfs, crystal door knobs, cantaloupe, rubber duckies and purple Play Dough (it tastes the best).
What? What's that you say, Self? You don't need consolation gifts? Oh, yeah, you now have Pinky and the Brain on DVD to help you shake off the bummer of it all.
Life is good.
Nicholl Fellows 1986 - 2005