I haven’t posted in a while. I’ve thought that I don’t have the time, I’m doing long hours of clinical work again and I’ve been using every other moment I can squeeze from my life to work in/with poetry: reading, writing, revising, moderating, reviewing, sending poems out, eating rejection slips (which, arriving generally via email, seems somewhat of a doubly dubious metaphor), etc. I’m just back from attending a Colrain Poetry Manuscript Conference where I brought a new manuscript to share; I feel today that it was received with care and (gulp, I don’t really know how to use this word) love.
I met another poet at the workshop that mentioned that she had read my blog (ah, forgotten blog!), and today I noticed that this blog has 37 subscribers–which to me feels like a lot (and makes me want to offer a heartfelt thank you). I don’t feel as if writing here is essential in any particular way to me or to readers, but I do think it is useful to my writing life in the same way (perhaps) that walking more would be useful to the life of my body.
One of my biggest obstacles to regular blogging is how much time it takes me to write even a few paragraphs. I tend to explore/surf while writing; I look up words whose meanings have become obscure to me, which spins off into other searching; I suffer angst about grammar and syntax; I spell check; but mostly I query myself incessently: is this writing any good? Not does it do good, but is it good writing? And I never know the answer. I’ve heard (although I know it to be untrue) that poets aren’t good at writing prose. But without decades of writing prose (fiction and non-fiction; personal and technical writing) I don’t think I could be writing poetry now.
One feeds the other. And there is the grace of it.