I’m going to make an effort to get back into doing at least weekly brain dumps. Not that there’s much in there. Or rather, there’s too much in there.
I hated going back to work after my vacation. I seriously need more of that kind of get-away. I’m still stressed out about my job because it’s not really getting better, and I heard some rumors that, if true, are very unpleasant things for the bank. But am I surprised? Not one bit. Honestly, I saw this kind of thing coming. Anyway, regardless of the stress, I don’t feel quite as burned out as before.
I’ve been writing, not a lot but enough. Mostly poetry. And a heavy handed attempt at a prose poem. I haven’t thought seriously about writing fiction in a very long time. I’m not sure what that says about my continued career as a fiction writer. I do have stories I want to finish, but right now, I’m pretending to be a poet.
Maybe because it’s National Poetry Month. Maybe because I should be a poet instead of a fiction writer. Maybe it’s just that I’m focused on poetry and will switch back to fiction as soon as I find a reason to and a focus. I can be terribly single-minded like that. It’s not quite obsession. My brain just works like that. I’ve always thought that writing poetry, even badly, is good for fiction writers. Just as writing fiction can be good for poets. They’re vastly different forms, requiring different writing skills and different thought processes. Playing with both can only be a good thing. Just like engaging in art other than writing is a good thing.
I’m not doing a 30 poems in 30 days project this year. I didn’t think I would be able to do justice to such an undertaking given my current circumstances. I am, however, focusing on a project with a working title of A Walking Tour of Pale. Right now, it’s an extremely loose collection of poetry and prose in the form of notes to some of the poems and historical information on Pale, its important places and its important citizens. It’s also sort of a murder mystery and a ghost story. And written by a fictional character. If I ever get a structure on the damn thing, I think it’ll be interesting. It’s just a mess right now, but all I’m concerned with is getting pieces written.
Also in celebration of National Poetry Month, I went and submitted three poems to a contest. Why is clicking the submit button so terrifying? I think it’s because it’s pretty much impossible to take it back. You can always take a snail mail submission out of the mailbox. But then maybe I don’t need that temptation. I’m tired of psyching myself out.
I’m not afraid of my writing. I’m not afraid of sharing my writing. I’m not afraid of being a good writer or a bad writer. I think every writer is a little bit of both. Not everything even a good writer writes is good. I’m not afraid of success or failure. I’ve fooled myself into thinking that for years now. And neither of those things matter. Why worry about it, then? I’m always saying I write for me first, so success or failure of the work outside of that limited audience is a moot point. It wasn’t for them in the first place.
I’m afraid of me. I don’t know why. I’ve never had a great relationship with myself. I’ve never been able to love myself or even just sort of like myself. There’s too much tension between who I really am and who I think I have to be. But if I don’t write for an audience, there’s no reason to live for an audience either. So, you know what?