Every writer in the world blogs about The Absurdist Administration and the 2016 de-selection. My NaPo 2017 was focused on harrowing through thirty days to describe what it is like in the middle of this shitstorm. The Orange One consumed months, and weeks of synaptic capacity. I’m just now coming out of a nearly two-week jag of outrage.
But now it really is time to leave the political writing to others much, much stronger than I and to my rants on Facebook. I have to return to pornetry, and writing in general. I’ve even pulled out paints. My absence is not unique. It seems though that everyone who was so hale and is slowing down. One of my faves – Remittance Girl – looks to have only one blog entry, and it’s this year, since 2016.
It’s so weird being on the internet. I received notice I’ve had my Amazon account for 20 years this year. The bulletin board I grew up on, Poetry Free-for-All, exists but with only a handful of pomes posted a day. There was a time when it sped by like Twitter, or my Facebook page. I see I still exist over at the ERWA. They have to be over 20 years old as well. Amazing.
Starting over again is a renewed commitment to working on writing, to think about writing again, to find words to describe what I’ve read and what I think about it. This is not the first time I’ve started over again. Like many writers, I’ve written since childhood. Cleaning out my mother’s house when we moved her into assisted living, I found an illustrated story from the 7th grade. And, of course, I still have my Girl Scout diary with its entries of dying pets and excruciating love crushes.
Writing stopped when I was consumed with writing term papers for classes. After graduating with my B.A., I turned my attention to writing novels. I started four of them. The paper has rotted away leaving only snake-shaped letters in a box. That’s what dead novels look like after they’ve decomposed. Then nothing… nothing… nothing…
For maybe five, six years. Then there were the tepid poetry workshops with their “only positive” feedback. Natalie Goldberg’s “Writing Down to the Bones” which created a crest for passing waves until Julia Cameron’s “The Artist’s Way” gave me the concrete plan for three pages a day.
Writing three pages a day, every day, for years – one bores oneself to the point of desperation. Luckily, I fell into the PFFA before I gave it up as an existential waste of energy. The PFFA fever burned hot for a year. Daily work writing critiques, reading about poetry, writing new work, editing old, workshopping, going from bulletin board to bulletin board, reading, reading, reading…
What interrupted the poetry community was the U.S. response to 9/11 and Bush’s decision to invade Afghanistan, and worse – Iraq. Friendly poetry communities exploded over the political situations. Rivalries developed into cacophony. Boards lost members and closed left and right, new ones opened from reformed cliques. Time passed and I was not doing that much writing.
Then, I discovered erotica.