By Liz Dubelman

Annually, I torture myself by reading A Room of One’s Own, which essentially posits: In order to create, one needs a room of one’s own and 500 British pounds. If you don’t have those, stick to short bursts like poetry or Internet posts. I have never had those, but I persist.

I am now a woman of a certain age and looking to redefine my life. One day, in one of the many email lists I subscribe to in a futile effort to replace the suppressing voice in my head, came the detail of a contest: A Hotel Room Of One’s Own. It was a sign. I had to win this so next year I wouldn’t experience anguish when rereading A Room of One’s Own. I would have found meaning.

At this point, I must point out how much I love omelets. I could live on them. The soft beautiful encasement for cheese, mushrooms or really anything savory. The contest promised solitude, humor writing classes, and omelets. I didn’t win.

I had been working with a client who told me that The Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop was the best writing workshop she had ever taken. I liked her book. It was one of the best I had read all year. So, while I may be an angst-ridden non-contest winner, I still had the chance to open myself up for surprises. I would go to Dayton anyway, and maybe next year I will have figured out how to have a room and a few dollars and the rest of my life.