It's so easy to START a blog..it's keeping it going that is difficult. I don't always have something to say. Though my family might differ with that, I am certain they'd agree that not everything I prattle on about is worth listening to. I've opened this screen at least three times today in the hope that a bolt of lightning will illuminate the room and I will suddenly have an idea worthy of a paragraph or two. Nope. I've pretty much decided that I MUST do an entry at least once a week--which gives me absolution for a little more than 80% of my time. I can live with that.
That resolved, I have been attempting to corral my poetry oeuvre into some sort of orderly topic-oriented progression, so that I might enter a few contests, submit to a few journals, and perhaps, just perhaps, achieve (in that suddenly-free 80% of my time) that devoutly-to-be-wished goal: publication.
It isn't easy. Despite my exalted title (ahem) I am still as uncertain about the quality and value of what I write as I ever was. It's so easy to brush off a compliment or a kind word as simple good manners. (Perhaps that is because of the books I've read and readings that I've walked away from with a contemptuous "I could do better than that!")
In any event, sending my work off to a journal or other publication feels like putting a brand-new kindergartner on the bus--or perhaps, more accurately, flinging them under the wheels of the bus. I read a poem, then I start (figuratively) to comb its hair or tweak its shirt, or lick my handkerchief and scrub away at an imagined spot. It's impossible to believe that it is ready to be dispatched into the real world to be judged and (possibly) found wanting. Far easier to keep it safe at home.
But then, how will I ever know whether it measures up or not? Maybe this is why so many artists (and I include poets among them) aren't recognized until they are dead. They can't let go.
That resolved, I have been attempting to corral my poetry oeuvre into some sort of orderly topic-oriented progression, so that I might enter a few contests, submit to a few journals, and perhaps, just perhaps, achieve (in that suddenly-free 80% of my time) that devoutly-to-be-wished goal: publication.
It isn't easy. Despite my exalted title (ahem) I am still as uncertain about the quality and value of what I write as I ever was. It's so easy to brush off a compliment or a kind word as simple good manners. (Perhaps that is because of the books I've read and readings that I've walked away from with a contemptuous "I could do better than that!")
In any event, sending my work off to a journal or other publication feels like putting a brand-new kindergartner on the bus--or perhaps, more accurately, flinging them under the wheels of the bus. I read a poem, then I start (figuratively) to comb its hair or tweak its shirt, or lick my handkerchief and scrub away at an imagined spot. It's impossible to believe that it is ready to be dispatched into the real world to be judged and (possibly) found wanting. Far easier to keep it safe at home.
But then, how will I ever know whether it measures up or not? Maybe this is why so many artists (and I include poets among them) aren't recognized until they are dead. They can't let go.
1 comment:
no one but you could write so pointedly and winningly about not being able to write. :) be brave Mary - not possible that anyone could ever find you or your work wanting. and I am not saying that to be polite. I am saying that as a junior member of the literary community that yearns for more and demands a front row seat at the first book signing.
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