Rhiyaya Goes Writing

I have cool news. Then I have not cool news. Then I get to the part where I ask for money.

Writers go to a lot of conferences. Except, I've never been to one, probably because I'm not a real writer, or so my brain tries to convince me daily.

The other day someone in a group I'm in mentioned their lovely experience at the Martha's Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing conference last summer. She wanted us to know that their parent-writer contest for a free ticket and lodging was about to close. ( https://www.mvicw.com/ )

"What the hell," I thought as I entered. I wrote a super heartfelt letter about how I would benefit and I used my New York Times essay as my entry.

I didn't think I'd win.

And I didn't.

But I did get an impossibly flattering email saying that I was basically the best thing since Shakespeare. Ok, maybe not. But they did seem to like my writing.

"Your submission, Christmas Fudge and Misremembered Snow Cream , is deeply powerful work. You have a direct and honest narrative voice that pulls the reader into your creative nonfiction writing immediately. As well you have a compelling life story that highlights how important it is to give yourself the time to write--which is precisely why I founded MVICW and these fellowships! You are a perfect match for our program..."

He went on to offer me one of their other fellowship opportunities which comes with a 35% discount  -- one of their biggest fellowship offers outside of the contest.

I did some rough math. I would still need to come up with nearly $3,000 to pay for airfare, lodging, and the rest of my ticket -- as well as the unpaid time off work I would have to take.

I emailed and declined. He emailed me back and said pretty please? He offered me a payment plan. He suggested I ask my employer for a professional development grant. Then he suggested I ask you folks -- the ones who have believed in my writing all along.

I have never down crowdfunding before. Not when Rowan was born early and we spent two months in the hospital between us. Not when my dad died and I left my marriage at basically the same time. It's scary. Like hosting a party and worrying that no one will show up. Maybe people don't like me as much as I wish they did. Cue anxious brain.

So here I am, just a girl asking a bunch of strangers to give me cash to essentially take a very literary vacation. But a vacation that includes workshops, editorial help, space and time to write, business and publishing info, and maybe time for me to get drunk with other writers and collaborate on satire that even McSweeney's couldn't resist.

But still, for the price of a cup of Starbucks with extra shots of espresso you could help a writer in need. Don't make me call Sarah McLachlan to come sing Angel while I make forlorn faces.

I think this is where I'm supposed to offer extra perks and stuff. Ummmm... If I ever write a memoir, I promise thank each and every person who donate? For the people who donate the most, I'll use your name as a pseudonym for one of the craziest characters in my life.

Look at the updates below to see a slightly edited version of the letter I sent the committee about why I want to go.