Dear Reader: It's been one car wreck, two poem drafts, one check-in with my #W2W mentor from last spring, one haircut, and 9 days since my last confession.
Last year was the pits. I'm being kind in this description so some reason I cannot explain. So much negative stuff went down I'm still dealing with it. That said, I was anxious for the new year to come just to be rid of 2017. So you will find pictured above our baby. The Scion was making a routine drive to work on the 5th when we were rear-ended while stopped at a light. The gentleman who hit me commented he hoped this did not ruin my day. Ha! This is going to ruin a lot more days than one. Alas, no one was hurt - except baby Scion. There is that to be thankful for. Beyond this, however, I refuse to let this incident suggest that the new year is going to be another crappy one. It's my year and I get to say yea or nay, on the whole, another bad year thing.
I got my plane reservations today for AWP18 in Tampa. It's going to be here sooner than you would think. I confess I've never been to Tampa and I confess I never really wanted to go there. No one asked me, but I wouldn't have put it there this year.
I confess that I am almost intrigued by the letters of poets and other writers as I am their writing work. I have volumes of collected letters of numerous poets. Off the top of my head, I have T.S. Eliot's, Allen Ginsberg's, Sylvia Plath's Letters home, and I added volume one of Plath's collected letters that just recently came out. Seems like I have another writer's but it is escaping me now.
Correspondence between two writers is fascinating because it is communication that is personal but on perhaps a higher level because these are people who make their whole life about the choice and arrangement of words to convey their thoughts. I wish more poets today exchanged mail. I wish everyone was more into writing. It's a lost art.
It's been 23 days since my DNA sample was mailed off. Still no sign of ancestors. Will they be wearing Kilts or Lederhosen? I confess I was less anxious about it before I started thinking about it again today. One of the poem drafts I wrote recently was about sending off my spit.
I started wondering yesterday how many poets engage in marginalia? I think I will do a twitter poll on the subject. I confess my feelings are conflicted. I have quite a few poetry books that are autographed and I think that ads to my desire to keep them especially nice looking. If you have an opinion, let's hear it.
Until next time, peace, joy, and the American Dream (whatever that is anymore)
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