For whatever reason, I almost always pack up all of my work on Friday and bring it home with me, even on weekends when the kids are home the whole time. So then on Sunday night and Monday morning I'm all eff this, why did I bring this home. But for once, I am glad I brought it all home this weekend, because now I'm sick. And who doesn't want to annotate and edit a fever away, right? Or feverishly plan an AWP table schedule? Or cough all over somebody's thesis?I am not taking any chances this time and I am not going to work. I will not repeat Lungtastrophy 2010. Oh no. And yesterday's football games certainly did not provide me with a shot of penicillin (or similar).
The not-writing is starting to really bother me.
But I've been understanding a lot more about my current project thanks to an interview I'm doing for The Fine Delight. I'll let you know when it's posted.
Sent in the final edits for Saint Monica. Subsequently fell in love with the poems all over again, if that's possible to do with your own poems.
BOR 4 is at the printer. Hooray! It might just be the best issue ever.
Still basking in the afterglow of The Monkey and the Wrench being released. It's a paperback, and also my first e-book. I don't have an e-reader, but some of my friends think it's cool. Thank you to all the folks who have bought a copy. We'll be giving out a mini-galley (to treasure! to bring home for the kids / cats!) at AWP.
I'm in AWP disbelief. Maybe because it's been less than a year since the last AWP.
I think that's about it for now. Thera-Flu, here I come.
4 comments:
Congrats on all your accomplishments and try to feel better soon!
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Ah, Mary, take care of yourself. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
I, too, am in AWP disbelief.
Sometimes, when I've been stuck in not-writing for a while (yes it can still happen even after being at this for more than 40 years), I find that I need to make a point of spending time away from words entirely. Walking around outside, among damp leaves, or snow, or by water, or among industrial yards cluttered with random junk, whatever happens to be nearby and available.
Poetry, I find, comes most of all from the silence before words. Sometimes a too-busy life (or a too-busy week or month or few days) can take me a little too much away from the before-words silence. Then it might be necessary to go and seek it out intentionally.
For what that's worth. And clearly getting well from the flu takes priority. Do be well.
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