Once upon a time I bloomed words from the tips of my fingers like a… word-blooming goddess with flowering fingertips. Now, I am embryonic. I need to be patient with myself.
I am unreasonably jealous anytime another writer gets attention and accolades.
Someone inside of me thinks all the attention and accolades should be long to ME ONLY ME IT’S ALL ABOUT ME DAMMIT.
I am reminded of my gentle, loving, sweet-natured kitty. She gives teeny mews most of the time and has an endless supply of soft kitty hugs and purring cuddle sessions for me. Until another cat invades our household.
Then, sweet Tara turns into a yowling, hissing fiend of a cat. She flips like a coin: one moment hissing and attacking the INVADER, and the next minute turning to me with a look of pure innocence, asking “Mew?”
Sometimes Tara can learn to share space with other felines, but only after a long and persistent campaign of desentization.
In matters of poetry and accolades, I am more like my cat than I would like to admit.
I am an imperfect human being.
There is nothing wrong with giving my embryonic, easily threatened Inner Poet all the time and safety and attention she needs.
WordPress’s post-dating feature is the best thing ever for procrastinators.
I would like to do NaPoWrMo next year.
Other poets have blogs.
Actually, I already knew this.
There is a very large and very important difference between writing and marketing your writing.
I tend to forget that every task in the universe — even those done online — takes time.
I find the notion of making numbered lists of disparate elements strangely entertaining.
I can scrawl a haiku in a notebook while stopped at a traffic light.
Doing so is not illegal, but checking my email is.