My words have come back to haunt me. Less than two weeks ago I recall posting that I don't mind getting sick due to lack of sleep just so long as I am able to get in some Natalie Time. Well, I mind now.

The head cold I have has moved into my chest. And I was awake coughing all Monday night. I finally fell asleep around 7:30 a.m. and then my alarm woke me up at 8 for my 10 a.m. class. Needless to say, sick as I am, I spent the better part of yesterday in bed.

That was a luxury I could not afford today. I don't want to miss more class. Besides, I had somewhere to be after class. Yep, that's right. The first rehearsal for my play. It went well considering our male lead wasn't there. He's sick, too, apparently. He sent Aimee an e-mail late this afternoon to explain his situation I just hope he has those lines learned!

Our female lead--I'm not worried about her. She'll be great. We really lucked out with her. She just walked in the room early on during the first night of auditions and there was something that just said she was right for the part... And as soon as she opened her mouth to read, she confirmed the part was hers. She looks the part, too! She set the bar so high that it was nearly impossible for us to consider another. I don't know if she has her lines down yet because we were just doing a read-through and work on characterization tonight, but I know at least that she's been looking at her script. It was wonderfully tattered!

Normally I'm annoyed by tattered books because I take meticulous care of my own. At least, I take meticulous care of their jackets. I find--odd as this may sound--a creased spine, dog-eared pages and notes lovingly made in margins to be a thing of beauty and a great comfort. As long as they're made by me in my own books, that is. It's a sign of a well-loved work.

It's odd, too, but I seem to hold this irrational (perhaps arrogant?) belief that no one can appreciate a book as much as I can. It's a quirk I have. I suppose it comes, in part, from being a Comparative Literature and English double-major. But I also think it's something that's been shaped somehow by my own insecurities as a writer. I want someone to read my writing (when I finally publish something) and love it. REALLY love it! Love it enough to read it again and again, marking off favourite passages. But I fear that no one will.

I fear that no one will appreciate my writing as much as I do... Art for art's sake is one thing, but art for the artist's sake is quite another--and not necessarily something that I'd like to explore (though this blog is probably the best example of art for the artist's sake at its self-indulgent worst!)

That's what I really want from being published, I guess. For my books to be well-loved by those who care enough to read them. I want respect, not necessarily fame. I certainly don't need much money--just enough for me to live off of and a little extra for me to put aside for the university educations of any future children (mind you, by the time my generation's children are ready to go on to post-secondary education, I probably will need to have written as many bestsellers as Stephen King to afford it!)

And I'd really love to have something that I've written taught in a university English course. That, I think, would be the ultimate compliment, the ultimate sign of appreciation.

Besides a creased spine, dog-eared pages and notes lovingly made in a margin.