Reading the acceptance letter from GrubStreet’s online novel incubator program felt surreal, almost like I had to reread it to fully grasp it.
Congratulations, Ivy. Your application impressed our judging panel, and we’re excited to welcome you.
For a moment, all I could hear was my heartbeat.
I’ve always craved a structured, well-regarded novel rewriting program, something that could finally bring my stories into the public eye.
After months of pouring effort into my latest psychological thriller, I sensed that my dedication was starting to yield results. I could picture my book on a shelf in a bookstore, its title illuminated under bright lights, with the cover hinting at thrilling secrets. Then, my eyes landed on the tuition fee in the congratulatory email.
Annual tuition is $8,955.
That made me pause. Can I really justify such a cost?
Suddenly, my mind was racing through my usual expenses: groceries, utilities, medical bills, and car insurance.
I could almost hear my mom’s voice over the phone, her breaths quickening. I knew exactly what she would say—I’ve heard it forever.
Good girls save. They don’t splurge.
In her eyes, money was meant for stability rather than personal growth. Would spending nearly $9,000 on a dream feel indulgent? Maybe even selfish?
Having followed the FIRE (Financial Independence, Retire Early) movement and retired from my pharmacist job at 50, I’ve been meticulous with my finances. Leaving San Francisco for a tranquil lakeside town in Mexico allowed me to escape the city’s clamor for nature’s calming embrace. Now, my days revolve around writing—something I’ve dreamt of since I penned a story about a robotic savior in fifth grade.
But here I was, frozen by this long-awaited opportunity.
I used to believe that frugality was a virtue. I found joy in home-cooked meals, snagging clothes on sale, and tracking every dollar on my Excel sheet. Back in California, I grew out my hair to skip salons, bought rotisserie chickens from Costco, and created broth from bones for soups. While in pharmacy school, I relied on library books to save cash and worked double shifts post-graduation to pay off my student loans.
Growing up in a financially strained household taught me that wanting more often leads to disappointment. My mother sewed my clothes, and my father worked hard to keep the pantry stocked. Money wasn’t just a number; it carried a moral weight. Saving made you disciplined and ready for the future.
For me, the past two decades have symbolized early retirement and living life on my own terms. Every habit I formed was about achieving freedom: no bosses, no performance reviews—just waking up when I choose. At last, my time was mine.
Before my move to Mexico, I meticulously crunched the numbers, even considering living costs and medical expenses not covered by insurance. I thought I could manage.
Yet, I hadn’t factored in the price of chasing a long-held dream. It seems that freedom is only attainable when it doesn’t cost a fortune to embrace it.
My gut instinct was to disregard the acceptance letter, almost as if I should celebrate simply being selected. Being one of the ten students means my writing stands up, right? Even if I navigated this far without formal training, surely improvement could come.
This persistent question has trailed me for decades, surfacing with every decision that costs over $100. Each time I consider something pricey, I find myself waiting to see if the impulse fades. If I didn’t need it before, why now?
However, this mindset has not just cost me financially; it has hindered my ability to dream.
“This pattern not only restrains us from spending money but also from envisioning larger dreams.”
At one point, I attempted applying to an MFA program but quickly abandoned it after drafting my personal statement. Old fears crept in again. What if it’s a waste of money? I opted instead to continue learning slowly and in my own way—by reading and writing.
I later cut my work hours to three days a week to focus on writing, but I hesitated for days before making that choice.
What if my income couldn’t support my family?
What if unexpected medical bills cropped up?
Prioritizing writing felt audacious and somewhat beyond my capacity. Yet even though my stressful job left little room for creativity, I lingered in that role.
Fast forward nearly three years after retiring, and I’ve written four novels. I decided to give the writing program another shot. When I submitted my application to GrubStreet, I merely wanted validation for my work—never expecting acceptance.
Now, staring at the acceptance letter fills me with mixed feelings. Sure, $8,955 translates to a significant amount, but perhaps it’s an investment that could put me nearer to publishing my novel. Am I unworthy of supporting a dream I’ve nurtured for years?
Still, the phrase “of course” sticks in my throat. I grapple with guilt whenever I spend significantly on myself. Yes, I’ve bought gifts for friends, covered fancy dinners, and contributed to pharmacy school and Wikipedia. But spending such a sizable amount on my own aspirations feels brazen.
This isn’t my first experience with hefty expenses. The prior year, I funded a month-long trip to Asia for my mom, fulfilling her lifelong wish to visit Japan, Korea, and China. I then had to adjust my budget, figuring out how to save up again.
At a loss about whether to enroll in the writing program, I reached out to a friend. When I mentioned the price, silence followed. Not shocking; she’s been postponing a pastry course for years, even while paying private school fees for her kids.
Frustration led me to do something impulsive. I asked ChatGPT for advice. In a heartbeat, I received the response: keep pushing forward.
Ridiculous, I know. But sometimes, I just need to hear a thought from outside of my own mind. Just as I lose the meaning of words when I stare too long, my reasoning feels untrustworthy sometimes.
This dilemma has always lingered beneath the surface. Studies indicate that women often prioritize investing their time and resources in others first. We’re raised to believe that good women should place others’ needs before their own, leading to what’s termed the motherhood penalty: a tendency to wait, serve, and exhaust oneself until little is left for personal dreams.
Then came the news that my childhood best friend had passed away. We were born only two months apart. The last time I saw her, she expressed a desire to embark on a dream journey to Europe, convinced she should delay until her son graduated college. Until the timing felt right. But sadly, it became too late.
I often lie awake at night remembering her. I picture us in high school, dreaming about the futures we envisioned.
I told her she’d become a writer, capable of telling powerful stories that would resonate globally. She aspired to be a travel journalist, chasing adventures at the far corners of the world.
Thirty-six years later, neither of us has fulfilled those dreams.
It’s hard not to ponder the purpose of financial freedom if I’m not investing in myself. At this point in my life, how can I refrain from spending on the person I aspire to be?
I got up and went straight to my laptop. This time, I composed a response to the program director expressing gratitude for the opportunity and stating my intention to participate.
As I hit send, a wave of emotions washed over me—relief mixed with apprehension. It felt as though I crossed an important line I’d worked diligently to establish.
This decision might disrupt my meticulously maintained budget, but I know I can adapt. Somehow, I’ve become quite adept at seemingly impossible tasks.
And now I understand another truth: We can’t afford not to try.
