At the noodging—and prodding and guilting and arm-twisting—of my friends Stacy and Mary, I applied to the Sirenland Writers Conference last autumn.  Mine was a last minute application and I mean that in a very literal sense, as I waited until the last hour of the last day of the application window to gather and clean up my writing samples, and until the last ticking minutes to write my cover letter. I believe I even called myself a “last minuter” in that cover letter.

It’s not that I didn’t know the deadline was looming: I had spent the previous four weeks pouring over the details of the conference on the website, reading everything I could find about the people running it and those who’d attended in the past. I read about her and him and her . Then I fully embraced the feeling of intimidation and decided I had no business. I was way out of my league.

But then there was Stacy. And Mary. And the last day to apply. And, of course, Positano, Italy.

I got over myself, attached all of my attachments and hit send. Sometime in the following week, I re-read the pieces I’d sent and almost died. The first of the three was so schmaltzy, so dripping with overt emotion, so stuffed with rookie errors, clichés and poor grammar, I knew instantly that there was no way any reviewer would even glance in the direction of my second and third pieces. Were I flexible enough to do so, I would have kicked my own ass. But I’m not, so instead I berated myself with a fierce and pointed inner dialogue.

In December, both Stacy and Mary got emails of acceptance and I got…wait listed!

I was thrilled. That’s me up there, being thrilled.

For the first time in my life, a life that arguably holds the world record in second-runner up status, I was ecstatic to be second best. It didn’t feel like second best. It felt very much like first. It felt like I’d won the scholarship or gotten the job or kept the guy. It was as much of a YES for me as any YES I’ve ever had.

And then. Three months later—as in, one week ago yesterday—I got a phone call and an email inviting me to attend the conference, which began on Sunday. There was a last minute withdrawl by one of the accepted participants, a painful decision that I can only imagine had to be heartbreaking for her. But it left an opening for me and the message I received on my answering machine said, “…we don’t expect that you can turn your life upside down at the last minute, but if you can swing it, we’d be happy to have you. Well, let me rephrase that: We’d be delighted to have you.”

Every star and moon aligned except for that stubborn dollar-sign-shaped constellation. Suffice it to say, the cost of last minute tickets from Southern California to the Amalfi Coast during tax season was prohibitive. I considered putting up a Pay Pal button here (if Nadya Suleman can do it…) but that felt tacky (again, see Nadya Suleman). So after some high-speed juggling and agonizing (I had to make a decision in a very short amount of time), I chose to decline the invitation.

But next year? Next year, I won’t waiver or hem or haw or doubt that I belong. Next year, I’ll be ready. Next year at this time, if they’ll still choose me, this will be me:

(Photos 1 and 3 taken by Stacy and borrowed with unspoken permission by me.)