Sunday, January 2, 2011

oh manuscript, beloved little beast sucking me dry

My poetry manuscript is resting on the floor by my feet, little bastard. We're still figuring each other out. I have the poems I'm pretty sure I want, but the order they go in is not yet clear. I've attempted to theme them together; family/self, sex/love, exterior. I missed submission deadlines to a couple of contests but I'm not worried. This process is the beginning of a process that will probably last a long time. I am submitting to one of my favorite presses, as their reading period is January.

Going through the poems of the last 10+ years has been pretty damn weird. Who needs a flux capacitor when you have poems to take you back in time?

Reading through the work I seem like I am given to being morose and depressed, or some people call it introspective. That or I rarely write poems when I'm happy. Probably a little of both. I'm reading a book on behavioral psychology (of course) and in self-diagnosing myself I think I have discovered one of the reason I've always written. When I was a child I was incredibly sensitive. I would cry at the smallest things or perceived slights. I tried to hold it back but my emotions were evident all of the time, crying a bubble in my throat always ready to burst. Of course, that had to be exhausting to the people around me. I would be told over and over again not to cry, not to show my feelings and I made a practice of not expressing myself. When I started writing I found a place I could put all of those ready-to-rear feelings on a page, where I could see them and honor them, without having to show everyone what I was feeling. Maybe I'm getting a little psychology 101 but it might make sense. Also, I was such a terribly lonely child, isolated by religion and books were I lived for. Thus, writing.

I have so much more to say but Love's dog just shit in my office and I have to take him outside. I think we both need a long walk.

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