I’m not a real grownup. Or not a real grownup writer. I can’t get myself to belly up and Write Anyway, Dammit. Real writers keep writing because writing is a job that one does every day, like other jobs of work.
I note that even when I did other jobs of work I had plenty of days where I didn’t belly up and Work Anyway, Dammit, but instead curled up in bed with a book. Not to mention that those jobs had routine elements like email that could fill in the gaps on days that were very nearly book-in-bed caliber.
Not a real grownup. I only actually work when I’m in the mood, and I’m moody.
This morning before coffee I got the poem critique I’d asked for. It wraps up with, “Keep working on these! I’m sure they can be truly stunning with some fine-tuning.”
All day, however, that’s not where my head is. Instead I’m ruminating on, “I’m having a tough time parsing this collection,” and “we are unable to publish your work at this time,” along with other comments and direction.
I bought these strangers’ critique so I could get another set of eyes, eyes with no context whatsoever for me and my work. It’s a good thing, still a good thing, and I forsee I’ll be incorporating parts of what they recommend. Eventually.
But at the moment, I feel myself not-absorbing. Just staring, inside my head.
I didn’t think my poems were nearly as odd as they seem to have been for them.