This morning I wrote about the significance today holds for me. I tried to tread cautiously because, well… honestly I’m not sure why. Part of me is tired of writing about the same thing, running over the same old ground. I didn’t want that post to be just another in a long string of similar posts. There’s a good short story by David Foster Wallace – I think it’s called “The Depressed Woman.” In it, if I remember correctly, he examines the sort of death-spiral that people with depression suffer. They know they’re down and that they need some support. They recognize that in asking for help, they sometimes bring other people down, which only makes them feel more down, etc. etc. I tread cautiously because I’m all too aware of my tendency to focus on the negative (fix what’s broken). I’m also aware of the mental loops and hoops I fall in to, and sometimes try really hard to avoid them. So much of what I write is like a sketch pad where I’m trying to work out ideas and/or feelings. I put some of it out there as a way to clear it out of my mind so that better things might follow – especially in my writing.
My daughter is here visiting for a week – she’s also here to take a test that she was having trouble scheduling back home. I’m more than happy to have the company, especially since I’m proud of the person she is and is becoming. I really enjoy spending time with her. I shared with her one or two of the poems I’ve written – she said I should turn them in to a full blown story or book. She thought they were good and were the beginning of something. Maybe so.
I spent a little bit of time today reading some other poets – poets who are publishing in journals where I might send some of my work. I was reading to see how I stacked up – which was a shitty way to read poetry (though I thought I stacked up well). I’ve still only submitted to one journal, and I need to put in some time sending more things off. For the first time in my life, I actually consider myself to be, among other things, a writer. I’m not where I want to be in terms of discipline, output, or any of those things, but I’m finally at a point where I’m feeling like I can work on something, and pursue it, or finish it, or jest leave it off. In some respects it’s like some of these blog posts. I’ve written over 250 of them. Many of them aren’t good or interesting or novel, and I’ve gotten more and more ok with that. Write it, and if it goes somewhere, re-work it, and if it doesn’t, move on.
Earlier today I finished the novel I was reading (Let the Great World Spin). It’s a great read, and at times I’ve wanted to go back and re-read – I liked his use of language and the way he worked the story. I also liked that I’m reading some of these things the way a writer might read them… saying – oh, I see what you did there, or I like the way you worked that in.
I went for a walk after dinner. I texted with my friend Deb a bit – I wanted to see how she was holding up. I don’t have a sense of how her personal life is. My guess is that things ended with her guy. We talked a little bit about living in the city – she forgot that B’s place was close to her kids’ school. She was sweet in saying she was sorry it didn’t work and that it was B’s loss. It is her loss, but it was my loss too.
I came home and worked on two different poems – I expect to have a few new ones to post in the next few days.