At nineteen, I am finally in love with the world.
I've been conditionally accepted to work on the editorial board of Other Voices, a lit journal based in Edmonton, which published my first published poem. Tomorrow I'll send them critiques of two sample submissions they asked me to review, and if they like what I write, I'm in. Editing work has been an ambition of mine since I was fourteen, and although this job isn't paid, it will look fantastic on my resume. There is another editing position, on the uni students' magazine, opening up this autumn, which I desperately want to score.
Today, I got to introduce Ted Hughes to my English class. On the bus home, an old woman noticed me reading a book of poetry, and asked if it was Shakespeare. It was Hughes, which I'd brought along to reference if I needed to, and I showed her the cover. She knew who he was. She said her mother had worked in the same Yorkshire town he had lived in. People from Liverpool, like her, thought Yorkshire people were tight-fisted. People from Liverpool were known for two things: their unconscious sharp wit, and their good humor. She wanted to know what I thought of Ted Hughes. Then, a few blocks from my stop, she told me about going into grammar, her favorite class, not knowing what grammar was, and how the teacher was terrifying. She got a 98 in grammar.
Classes are done for my first year of university. I have four exams, which will be finished next Tuesday, and the summer is mine to get married in, write, work, read, and garden. I sat with Tim for most of the evening, knitting Emily's scarf and talking. I had a bath, and war-painted my toenails. I ate vanilla yogurt with cocoa nibs. I made some notes for a poem.
I have always known that I wanted to be a writer, a literary lady. It seems the world has allowed me to begin a literary life, just when everything else is beginning as well. The man I will marry is a marvel. One of my tomato seeds has germinated.