Winter on the porch
Why Not Just Write?
It’s February in Arkansas and I’ve had that cobalt feeling for about a week. First, we were snowed in. Then, the snow melted into mud. It’s winter in the Ozarks, what did I think? So, I tell myself, it’s just the weather. But not this month. You know how it is for writers. It’s a lot of “no” with an occasional “yes.” I seem to get by on this. But 2021 rhymes with woebegone and this morning, my record of hits/misses seems to be worse than usual. Yes, I know I write for myself. I love writing. It doesn’t matter if one journal doesn’t choose my work. But then comes another “no,” and another, and suddenly I wonder why I spend hours every day on the business of poetry. Why not just write?
As for “just” writing, so far this year I’ve been writing a new poem every morning. Some are ok, one or two are better-than-that, but most of them are “drawer poems,” the ones you put away in a drawer and (maybe) revisit much later. Some are only a couple of lines. Most hover around 14. That’s not the point. I’m satisfied to have done the work. A writer once told me that the muse would visit my desk every day. If I were sitting there, she’d touch my shoulder. If not, she’d move on to the next desk. I must admit, I’m testing my muse.
So far in a career of almost three decades, I’ve published enough. But that doesn’t soothe me when the “no”s come in a stream. Even if a poet writes “for herself,” an occasional “attagirl” doesn’t hurt. So, if I have to answer the question, “why not just write,” I gladly admit I can’t sit in my upstairs room and pour out works that are destined to live under my bed or in that proverbial drawer. I believe deeply that the task of the writer who wants to call herself “poet” is to also engage in the scut work of po-biz. The research into journals, the submissions and rejections, the revisions and resubmissions. Even when the day looks bleak, I believe with Olivia Butler that “the big talent is persistence.”
It’s February in Arkansas and I’ve had that cobalt feeling for about a week. First, we were snowed in. Then, the snow melted into mud. It’s winter in the Ozarks, what did I think? So, I tell myself, it’s just the weather. But not this month. You know how it is for writers. It’s a lot of “no” with an occasional “yes.” I seem to get by on this. But 2021 rhymes with woebegone and this morning, my record of hits/misses seems to be worse than usual. Yes, I know I write for myself. I love writing. It doesn’t matter if one journal doesn’t choose my work. But then comes another “no,” and another, and suddenly I wonder why I spend hours every day on the business of poetry. Why not just write?
As for “just” writing, so far this year I’ve been writing a new poem every morning. Some are ok, one or two are better-than-that, but most of them are “drawer poems,” the ones you put away in a drawer and (maybe) revisit much later. Some are only a couple of lines. Most hover around 14. That’s not the point. I’m satisfied to have done the work. A writer once told me that the muse would visit my desk every day. If I were sitting there, she’d touch my shoulder. If not, she’d move on to the next desk. I must admit, I’m testing my muse.
So far in a career of almost three decades, I’ve published enough. But that doesn’t soothe me when the “no”s come in a stream. Even if a poet writes “for herself,” an occasional “attagirl” doesn’t hurt. So, if I have to answer the question, “why not just write,” I gladly admit I can’t sit in my upstairs room and pour out works that are destined to live under my bed or in that proverbial drawer. I believe deeply that the task of the writer who wants to call herself “poet” is to also engage in the scut work of po-biz. The research into journals, the submissions and rejections, the revisions and resubmissions. Even when the day looks bleak, I believe with Olivia Butler that “the big talent is persistence.”
