A Star, if Born

I did something very bold today. I faxed a submission to the Washington Post for possible publication in their Sunday column: "Life is Short - Autobiography as Haiku." I originally wrote it out on the back of a to-do/shopping list this past Sunday. I typed it into Notepad when I found approximately 5 minutes in-between taking care of my mother (my drama is my mama). I did about 10 edits before I felt satisfied that it would at least receive a rejection letter, rather than be sent directly to the "round file." I had no idea how hard it is to write about your life (in the now), in 100 words or less. It so happens that I actually cross paths, on occasion, with writers who live in the same town that I do. The honest ones say there is no glamour being a writer, it's alot of thankless work done while wearing sweatpants, and no going out to 3 martini lunches everyday (sorry boys, but the women writers are the ones who have said this very thing to me. Unfortunately, the men writers I have met so far have heads puffed-out to the size of hot air balloons and would never admit it). It has always been a dream of mine to be a writer (this sounds SO cliche). I want to be an "unprolific novelist." I just want to write one profoundly deep, soul-moving tome. Like Harper Lee. Or Margaret Mitchell. I know I could be a excellent essayist. I am a huge fan of the Op-Ed page. Time will tell if I will burn bright.