I have been listening to a great book called Snoop: What Your Stuff Says About You. Digging it very much. I am culling great lines form the writing for my own use. Little phrases that can be twisted prettily into my poetry and non-poetry. I especially like the phrase the residue of suggested actions. That one is making into the poem I've been sleeping with for days now.
Last night I went to see Lily Koppel, author of The Red Leather Diary speak. What a story and a half! The author essentially went dumpster diving outside her NY apartment and found a collection of steamer trunks from the early 20th century. In one of the trunks she found a red leather diary that chronicled the adolescence of a young woman named Florence in the 1930s. The story spins off beautifully from there. Lily Koppel was eloquent; a brilliant speaker with a compelling voice that made me super excited to read her words. The story of actually tracking down Florence and finding what became of her is fascinating. Good stuff.
I love being a writer, even when I think I hate it. I love language. I love words. I love stringing these 26 symbols together in intricate patterns that sing out what my heart swinging to, or sinking to, as has often been the case. I love the blank page and the feel of the pen in my hand. Nothing else compares. Even if I had no hope of ever publishing or sharing my work I would write because I love it so damn much.