For now

I'm posting two days in a row. Blame the weather. Blame my sleep patterns which are fucked after taking care of a sick shih tzu for a month (who is now much better, thanks for asking). Blame the espresso. 

I'm reading some manuscripts for a contest I'm judging. People ask why I do this in the little bit of free time that I have. And no, I'm not getting paid to do it. It's mainly because I love it. I love to read. I love to imagine an unknown writer of Latinx descent getting a book contract. I love helping out a nonprofit that I admire. 

Plus, it's fun. It's inspiring to read these authors' books, and see the result of their blood, sweat and tears. Less than a decade ago, I was in their shoes. Sure, I'd published stories in a few journals, and did readings. I workshopped pieces. I did summer writing retreats. But it never entirely felt real until I held my first book in my hands. And then my second. Then I knew I was a writer for real but also that I'd been one all along. 

Sometimes, it feels like it happened by magic, but then other times, I look back and think, shit, you made that happen with years and years of hard work. You not only manifested it, but you created it. Like a sculptor. You made your life happen. 

What did you expect to happen except exactly what did?

So when I read these manuscripts, I really read them. I love their effort. Their talent. Their shimmering brilliance on the page. The judging part is hard, but I can already tell that I'll know when I know. 

So for now, I'll just keep on reading.