I’m after an experience. Not a recounting of an experience, but an exploration that just isn’t possible when I’m my clumsy mortal self stumbling around being an asshole (we’re all assholes), never having the right words.
When I find a phrase, an image or line that shows me something new, I believe in transformation — of the moment, of the object, of the self. And when I put them together into a finished poem, the whole world starts to make sense.
I wake up and make oatmeal. I take my Subaru for its oil change. I go with my boyfriend to Bennington on an unseasonably warm February Saturday. We browse galleries and bookstores. We eat and drink at a local brewery where Marilyn Monroe watches us sideways from her perch atop an old upright piano. Things are perfectly normal.
It’s far harder for me tear myself away from my significant other, from my kids, from family and friends when I’m in love with myself and all of them. But when I’m in a funk, I retreat and write.
Since when is the “promise” to make a living or become a celebrity the only good reason to do anything? We’re obsessed with too much bull shit like that.
I was thrilled to see D.A. Powell tweet about an MFA being impractical: OK, yes: in fairness, he labels his advice impractical, not the MFA (and in the article itself he calls the reasons people choose MFAs “impractical,” not the degree). He thinks they’re a good idea. I do, too, of course (and thank goodness […]
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I’ve been tagged for the blog tour on writing process by one of my favorite poet friends: Poet Mom January O’Neil. She is one of the hardest working writers I know, so how could I say no?