Clarion West. It sounds like a six-week-long manifestation of the inner workings of my soul. Eighteen writers, thriving and growing, flailing about, losing hope and gaining it back just as quickly and twice as hard, staying up until five in the morning knowing you need sleep but desperate to just finish this story? It sounds like heaven to me. Seriously, when I think heaven, I think this. Fuck criticism, fuck compliments - I can take it, I can improve, I can learn. I can thrive in that environment. I've completed three years of NaNoWriMo, haven't I? I can take this on.
I have four years until I'm eighteen. I have four years to save up money. I have four years, four years, four years. I'll apply for the scholarships. I'll save - by god I'll save. I want this so bad. I'll write the best short story I've ever written just to get in. I'll get two summer jobs and one year-long job if I have to, just to get this money. I don't know how much it costs... I asked. No answer yet. But I hope there will be. Because I need this - something like this, so, so so bad.
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