the mom, the kids, the cats, the whole shebang
I am in the general throes of why write? Who has time? Why write when I can read? Why write when I can buy poetry books? Just look at all the other poets already published. Online. In journals. And, God help me, on all the bookstore shelves.
Of course, it's not often I find an author I really, really like. However, this weekend I found a book by D. Nurske. I think that's the name. I loved a few poems immediately. I carried it around with me. I was going to buy it, until my two-year-old spilled her apple juice in the store cafe. And wouldn't you know, it spilled in the little pink stroller where we had all of our "want to buy them" books stashed. I knew that was going to happen, hubby said. Dude! If you're psychic, share! I did not buy the book. It was hardly wet, just a litle on the edges, but the thrill was gone. Of course, all of my daughter's board books were easily wiped off, paid for, and subsequently brought home.
The moral of the story? Well, I guess, the moral is, there are still poets out there who delight and inspire me, but truthfully, I kind of like my own writing, so maybe I should just get working on it.
So. There. i have a poem I'm working on. I'll be back. Hopefully for tomorrow's Writer's Island. Until then.