After my last post, I haven’t written a word of poetry. Not one word! The fear is pretty deep, and maybe so is my avoidance. Like if I avoid writing poems and editing it to its final glory, I can blame that for why it doesn’t win. I’m, in a way, not really responsible. It was fear’s fault!
The best antidote for writer’s block, for me at least, is reading. I have to stay in touch with poetry, and in a world so wholly free from poetry, where I don’t and won’t read it on an active basis unless I pick up a book or look through a literary journal, I need to do the necessary work of staying in touch. I need to read poetry, and read it often. When I read, I get inspired and then often that inspiration turns into a poem. If I’m not reading, I’m cutting off that valuable source of inspiration.
I turn 30 next month. I’d like my book to have a publishing contract, one which I know is the right fit, in my 30th year of life. I’d like 30 years to feel like a start of more poetry instead of something terrible, like every woman moaning in her bathtub after a long night makes it seem like.