I have found a publisher. A publisher has picked me. Suddenly my work has been elevated to something that others would want to read. I am chosen. I am no longer the wallflower with her pile of words that might be awful or, worse embarrasing. I am now chosen.
Nothing has changed, and yet importance has been given to a body of work.
This is what happens when you pick me. Suddenly, I am given credibility. I can relax in to an easy confidence. I think of all the times I have been picked. Someone agrees to have sex with me, not the next girl or the one before, but me. Legitimacy I become someone desired.
After the picking is done with I know that nothing has changed. My work is still as good or as bad as it always was. My body is as questionable. My sexual prowess has not been transformed by the fact that I have been chosen.
I am considering the idea of sexual verses sexy. I am considering the concept of beautiful. All this for something I am writing, but I pause and I think, before I was published I was still this good. Before I was picked to be someone's lover I was still as full of sex.
I need to learn how to pick me. I pick me. I don't need you to pick me at all. I know when the work is good. I know when I am all sex in a thin skin. All this is up to me.