Category Archives: Staying With the Writing

Interview w/Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Something like a year ago, I interviewed Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, who’d recently become the Western Slope Poet Laureate. (For those of you who are unfamiliar with Colorado-speak, we refer to the part of our state that’s west of the Continental Divide, as “the Western Slope.”) I’d intended it for an online poetry magazine that went “on hiatus” while I was putting some of the final touches on the interview. Since, I’ve tried a couple other places, and neither place was interested in even receiving the interview.

Then, yesterday, I came across this interview, referenced in Rosemerry’s own blogsite. I read it, liked it, and then later pondered whether I could do the same with my own.

So, without further ado, here’s my own interview with Rosemerry.

 

Show Up And Write Something True

(An interview with Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer by Eduardo Rey Brummel)

Version 2Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, current Western Slope Poet Laureate, has had her work included in O Magazine, and on, Prairie Home Companion. One of her current WSPL projects has been the online, Heard of Poets: Poems From Colorado’s Western Slope, a weekly profile of a Western Slope poet.

Long before she became WSPL, she was teaching and conducting workshops in places such as: Colorado Mesa University, Ah Haa School for the Arts, The Aesthetic Education Institute of Colorado, and Think 360 Arts. Her latest book is, Even Now, and her website is, wordwoman.com. She and her family live in Colorado’s San Miguel County.

(This interview was conducted via a series of emails between Rosemerry and myself.)

ERB: Let’s jump right in. In Mr. Hendrick’s fourth-grade class, you wrote:

“Pink is pretty/and fingernail polish./Lovely roses/I’d never abolish.” What would your fourth-grade self think of where that poem has taken you?

RWT: Well, that fourth-grade girl knew exactly one thing about poems. They were fun to write. She didn’t care if a poem were[was?] published. She didn’t know that it wasn’t practical to be a poet. She didn’t know that poems could save her life.

What a gift, really, to come to poetry for the pure pleasure of it. What pulled me in then, as it does to this day, is the thrill of reading poems and finding resonance there. And then there is the thrill of the blank page—how perfect it is in its potential. How anything can happen. And then there’s the thrill of the words themselves at play with each other through sound, through meaning. And then there’s the disappointment of not saying what we wanted to—not precisely communicating what we want to say. And the chance to try it again. And it’s free.

I have worked with enough fourth grade students to know that it is possible at age 10 to write really moving, mature, insightful poems. I was not one of those kids. I just wanted to have a good time. I think that fourth-grade self would be glad to know that I still find writing playful, even when the subject is very serious.

 “…[I]t wasn’t practical to be a poet,” you said. I’m reminded of the line from, The Wizard of Oz, “Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.”  I’m not so sure being practical is really all that practical.

I love that line from the Wizard of Oz. I am grateful for impractical hearts—hearts that risk and break and open wider than we ever dreamed possible.

Tell me a little more about how “poems could save her life.”

I think many people who have gone through very difficult times can point to a poem that “saved them,” that helped them find meaning or purpose or at least the will to live another day. For me, that poem was “Rumi, Pay Homage,” a version of Rumi by Daniel Ladinsky.

What about your life, poetry or otherwise, surprises and/or amazes you?

Oh Eduardo, what doesn’t amaze me? Is that too flip? I am not trying to be flip. I think I live in a constant state of amazement. I am told it’s a little overwhelming for people around me sometimes.

Since you earned your graduate degree in Language and Linguistics, it seems you’d already decided to pursue some sort of writing career. Had you also decided, back then, to be a poet?

When I was at Colorado College, I was lucky enough to take a half-block class with Owen Kramer called “English as a Classical Language,” in which we looked at the Indo-European roots of words. It was the first time I was introduced to the phonetic alphabet, and I fell in love with the usefulness of that! I transcribed several of Hopkins’s poems into the phonetic alphabet, and it enabled me to really notice the patterns he was using. That was the beginning of my love affair with linguistics. I understood that if I wanted to really know language, a scientific background in phonetics, syntax, etymology and language acquisition would help enormously! I was an anomaly in the [University of Wisconsin-Madison graduate] program, for sure. Everyone else was planning on teaching ESL (which I did as a TA). But you are right, Eduardo, I chose to study linguistics because I knew it would really help me as a writer. I believe it does.

You’ve composed a poem each day, for what—the last ten years? What got you started, doing that? What’s kept you at it for all this time?

About ten years ago at Sparrows Poetry Festival in Salida, I did a workshop with Jude Janett. She had just finished doing a poem-a-day practice for 30 days and challenged each of us in the room to do the same. Here were her guidelines: Find two friends. Agree to send each other poems. Agree that you do not need to respond to each other’s daily poems. I thought it sounded impossible, but I was excited to try. I partnered with Ellen Marie Metrick and Barbara Ford. Ellen I knew well, and Barbara was someone I really wanted to get to know. It turned out to be a fabulous way to engage with each other and has fostered an intimacy that still exists between the three of us to this day.

After 30 days, we decided to go for 90. Then, when the other two decided to take a break, I decided to keep it up, though I did take a six-month break in 2008 when my second child was born.

Perhaps I would like to tell you that I need to do it, that I am driven to write the poems. Perhaps it is more true to say I do not need to do it. That it is all too easy to not write poems. That is why, I think, the daily poeming is so important. It helps me maintain poetry as a practice. Practice. That word is so vital to me when it comes to poetry. I feel as if I am constantly learning, constantly exploring new tools, new voices, new ways of reading and writing and saying the things that defy being said—like what it means to be alive.

One of the best things about writing a poem a day is that it takes off a lot of pressure. I used to only want to write if I was pretty sure that what I wrote would be good. As a result, I had a hard time starting. What joy I have now in saying I am a failed perfectionist. When writing a poem a day, I know I can’t write a masterpiece every day. But, as Billy Collins once said, “If you stay in the aviary long enough, sooner or later a bird will land on your head.” If you write enough poems, well, eventually you will write one that really sings.

Okay, one more thought. The practice has really shifted my approach to the page. Now, instead of my goal being to write something good, I tell myself all I need to do is show up and write something true. True, of course, does not mean factual. I would be lying, Eduardo, if I told you I don’t want to write something good. Of course I do! But that intention is not the starting point.

In his book, Fooling With Words, Bill Moyers quotes Mark Doty, who says, “I might write a poem which begins in raw and inchoate feeling. Most of my poems do begin that way. They come tumbling out of me, but that’s a cry, not a poem. An unshaped utterance is not a poem…. You must stand at a distance from yourself and apply all the resources you can muster to the raw stuff of experience.” 

When I read this to Art Goodtimes, he disagreed, arguing for the unpolished—“First thought, best thought,” I reckon. What about you? Where do you stand: fine-tuned or closest to the source?

Ha! This is a great follow up to the last question. So. I feel that it is essential to start with something true … and then I very fiercely believe in craft. Of course the more you read and study, the more tools you bring with you to a first draft—a sense of rhythm, a drive toward a turn. In other words, the more you practice, the more likely it is you have better “first thoughts.”

I sure do understand what Art is saying, though. I would think that most poets know what it is like to wring out whatever is essential in a poem by fine-tuning it too much.

Whether I am writing a poem or revising it (hopefully after it’s very cold so I am a little less attached to it), I ask myself over and over and over, “Am I serving the poem?” I love this notion of being in service to the poem. For me, it’s come out of a mantra given to us by Jack Mueller, “Obey the poem’s emerging form.” I have never had much fondness for the word obey. But the more I feel that I am in service to the poem, the more I get out of the way and let the poem have its way, well, the more powerful the practice, the more powerful the poem.

Is there a poet whom you’re intimidated by? Say, whom you’re nervous about meeting? (Jane Hirshfield? Jorie Graham? Marie Howe? Sharon Olds?) Was it like this, crossing paths with Naomi Shihab Nye?

I suppose the kind of intimidation you are speaking of begins with admiration but is tarnished by comparison and even self-flagellation (“why can’t I be that brilliant, that funny, that wise, that clear”). Pedestal-itis: the impression that another person’s greatness makes them inaccessible. I’m prone this way.

That was the case when I met Naomi a few years ago. We were presenting together at a poetry festival in Ohio, and it became almost immediately clear that the pedestal was getting greatly in the way. There was no chance of friendship when I held her up so high. Luckily she was so warm, so human, it didn’t take long for me to learn I needed to alter my lens.

I have a friend who has a habit of meeting every poet she admires. She seeks them out and befriends them. I have watched her for years with great curiosity and I would like to think I am learning from her. What a gift we give ourselves to surround ourselves with people we consider to be more intelligent, more creative, more funny, more wise—people who inspire us.

I think I am particularly lucky to have landed on Colorado’s Western Slope where the poets tend to be especially friendly, welcoming, supportive and fun. That open-armed, open-hearted environment, fostered for years by Art Goodtimes, Jim Tipton, Karen Chamberlain and others, certainly helps take away some of that intimidation factor.

“Pedestalitis,” to be sure; but it’s, perhaps, a more intimate intimidation I’m asking about. For example, there are certain poets whose works can cause me to fall sort of into despair, wondering what right do I have, poeming, when the world already has this poet, their poems, so beyond my own talents. Michelle Kodis has said, “Comparison is the root of all unhappiness.” Do you struggle with this? If so, how do rise from these ashes, do you have to befriend a person in order to tear down their pedestal?

I think I used to be more intimidated by other poets and fall into the kind of desperation you’re describing. That doesn’t happen so much anymore. Maybe it’s a blessing that comes with age? I think we can exhaust that intimidated part of ourselves so that after years of clenching and shoulding and pedestaling, it finally gives up and we can relax a little more.

Why write? And why poems? Why not essays or stories?

Why write? Who can say why we are tugged to one art or another? For me, words are like friends, and I am infinitely curious about them. I love to know their etymologies. I love to speak them for the pure fun of speaking them. Language thrills me. And why poems? Well, partly because I have no sense of plot. I have written many essays and articles, and I enjoy creative non-fiction, but they don’t have the same magnetism for me as poetry. Perhaps, and I hate to admit it, part of this preference is because poetry is very efficient. I am half-German, and I think that there is a drive toward efficiency bred into me.

“I have no sense of plot,” you said. I disagree. What about “Vivian Learns First Person Possessive” and “Because Sometimes I Get that No Gets Me Nowhere,” from, The Less I Hold; nearly any poem from, The Miracle Already Happening; or even “Telluride Lunaria,” the very first poem from your first published collection, Lunaria? To be clear, I’ve scarcely even begun to scratch the surface. Sometimes plot does happen on the page, true; but there’s no plot unless it happens inside the reader—which all of these poems of yours, and so, so many others, cause to happen. I agree with you about the mysterious tugging toward a specific art form, the elegant efficiency of poetry, but I think you’re far more adept with plot than you give yourself credit for.

I have written a lot of short stories over the years, and I can tell you they are just plain bad. Maybe I have no sense of elongated plot 🙂

You are a singer, both with an a cappella group and in your everyday—have you considered writing lyrics?

I think that a lyricist might be better equipped to say what the difference is between a poem and a song lyric. The fact that I don’t know the difference is probably the reason why I am not a song writer. Having said that, Heartbeat has performed some of my poems as songs—other members have arranged them so we can sing them. And I have collaborated with other composers before—David Lingle even created a four-part choral arrangement based on the seasons that used four of my poems. I enjoy these collaborations and would love to do more, but I haven’t even considered writing songs for the sake of writing songs … Hmmm. Maybe I should learn more about it!

List some poems you wish you’d written.

Well, it’s more a hit list of some of my favorite poems … I am glad they were written. There could be many, many more if you have space …

“For the Anniversary of My Death,” W. S. Merwin

“Cruelty,” Lucille Clifton

“Kindness,” Naomi Shihab Nye

“i like my body when it’s with your,” e. e. cummings

“How You Might Approach a Fawn,” Wendy Videlock

“Postscript,” Daniel Gerber

“Learning to Speak Italian Slowly,” David Shumate

“Love,” Lola Haskins

“And Remember to Be Kind to Yourself,” David J. Rothman

“Roadkill Coyote,” Art Goodtimes

“Rumi, Pay Homage,” Rumi, translated by D. Ladinsky

All 100 Love Sonnets, Pablo Neruda

“O,” A. E. Stallings

“From Blossoms,” Li-Young Lee

“Spring and Fall,” Gerard Manley Hopkins

“Unwise Purchases,” George Bilgere

“Truth,” Alison Luterman

“Autumn,” “You Darkness,” and “I Live My Life in Growing Orbits,” Rainer Maria Rilke

“Concourse K,” Danny Rosen

“I Wanted You in the Kitchen of My Heart,” James Tipton

“The Sabbath Poems,” Wendell Berry

“Ask Me,” William Stafford

Had you been to Telluride before moving/landing here?

Though I lived in Colorado since 1980, my first visit to Telluride was in 1993. I was home on summer break from the University of Wisconsin-Madison where I was earning my Master’s in English Language and Linguistics. I had no idea what kind of town it was, but my German friend Babette and I were up for an adventure and drove over. We found a room for $10/night in a hotel being renovated and decided to stay a few nights. That evening, walking down the street, I met the man who would become my husband. After I graduated, that man, Eric Trommer, invited me to come live with him, and though I was wary of living in a resort town, I very muchly wanted to be with Eric. I still have reservations about living near a resort town, as jawdroppingly beautiful as it is, but I am very glad to be married to such a wonderful man and I love the beautiful life we have made together here.

Tell me about Talking Gourds. How did you get involved, and how has it evolved across the years? Are there struggles, finding a poet/writer, each month?

When I first moved to Telluride, Art was director of the Telluride Writers Guild, and he was leading monthly readings and an annual festival in which we passed a gourd around a circle to share our poems and stories. The gourd, a symbol of both the masculine and feminine, was a tradition passed on to him by deep ecologist Dolores LaChapelle. After a year or so, I took over as director of the Telluride Writers Guild. For ten years, I developed a pretty ambitious schedule of events—we had the monthly readings, plus two annual festivals (Walking Words and Talking Gourds), two annual contests, and a monthly writer-in-the schools program. Then, with my second child, I had to give up the leadership. The Writer’s Guild is presently defunct, but Talking Gourds has persisted as a poetry series, now under the umbrella of Telluride Institute. Art and I revived it in 2012. For the past two years it has been hosted at Arroyo, a wine bar in Telluride, on the first Tuesday of the month, and it always features a reader, followed by an open gourd circle. Most months we have themes, such as Water or Red or Liberty, and we invite readers to share poems or thoughts on the theme—though we don’t mind if someone shares on another topic.

I really appreciate the gourd circle. It is so different from the stage model, in which one person is put in the limelight. I like the equality of the circle, a round of listeners and speakers, and I like the symbolism of the gourd—it was the first vessel for a “message in a bottle” and has been a valued plant in many cultures.

What poems of yours have you been surprised by? How/Why?

Well, I would like to think that I get surprised in most of my poems. I push myself to not know how a poem will end. If I think I know the end, I try to write past it. Or I write two endings. My friend Kathryn Bass once called it using an “emergency exit” when we escape a poem by thinking we know where it will go.

But lately my best surprises have come when I have been collaborating. Recently I wrote thirteen poems based on paintings done by Colorado artists for a project sponsored by the Ars Nova Singers. I LOVED it! How else would I have ever gotten an elephant balancing on tea cups into a poem?

Another great surprise was to start performing with cellist Kyra Kopestonsky. We’ve been having so much fun pairing poems with music and rhythm, and it takes performance to a whole new level. I often clap and jump up with excitement when we stumble on a new way to play with the poem and the instrument. It’s just so darn exciting!

Do you write at a specific time, or do you squeeze it in when you’re able?

For the last few years, I have written almost always at night after my kids go to sleep. It seems to me there is a big difference in poems written in the morning and in the evening—one looks forward and the other looks back. It will be interesting to see when my practice changes how it changes the poems, too.

But beyond writing, I think that a poetry practice involves paying attention. This is something I really love about a daily practice. It invites us to be available to the world. I am almost always on the lookout for a poem bud.

Going back to what you said earlier about focusing on writing something true rather than good, doesn’t it typically turn out, anyway, that what is “true” is also “good?”

You are so right. If we can write something true, then chances are its authenticity will ring in the reader, creating resonance. Good is such a strange judgment. I would suggest that I would rather have resonance than be “good” in a technical way. Though of course, it would be great to have both!

 

I’ve another interview, with another poet. I’m thinking, now, I’ll post here as well, say, in a week or so.

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January 28, 2017 · 3:45 pm

Fiction Rising?

Back when I first got the notion to become a writer, it was short stories that I wanted to write, more that essays. So, that’s what I concentrated on most. However, as my writing life played itself out, it was my essays—and later, my book reviews—that received publication; although two of my stories did each make Honorable Mention.  After a couple decades of what felt to me to be failure, or at least, falling short, I decided to focus on what was working, essays and reviews. Roughly about the same time, poetry was becoming a rising star, thus pulling me further still from fiction writing.

Well, I’m thinking my fiction writing may not have been all the way gone, after all. Just a few days ago, I came across a book I’d feared I’d jettisoned, having probably included it among one of my many boxes of books contributed across the years to our library’s semi-annual used book sales: Fiction Writer’s Workshop, by Josip Novakovich. Too, I’ve had some time away from writing fiction, and I’m thinking I may have achieved enough distance from where I once approached doing it, that I might now be able to circumvent what had been my fatal flaw: not allowing my characters to struggle and suffer. Too, I’ve been getting the itch again to tell made-up stories.

All this said, my reading of such, shorts and novels, has been comparatively dismal, last year or two. I still subscribe to no fewer than four literary ‘zines, as well as New Yorker—solely for it’s short stories. Lately, I’ve gotten further behind in my readings than ever. So I guess it’s possible that’s it’s merely the idea, the image of writing fiction that I’m feeling drawn to. Won’t know until I take pen-in-hand, and see.

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, recently-appointed Western Slope Poet Laureate, pointing the way.

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, recently-appointed Western Slope Poet Laureate, pointing the way.

In other news, my esteemed poetry colleague, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, was recently appointed Western Slope Poet Laureate. Here’s the best link I could find, although you’ll have to scroll down a skosh to get the actual announcement.

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Filed under Changing Perspective, Sorting It Out, Staying With the Writing

Staying Put, Outta the Way

This afternoon, I started writing again about the memorial to my dad that I had almost four months ago. Because two years ago they published another essay about me, my father, and the same Arkansas River, I was aiming for this essay to also be for High Country News. Well, as I wrote, things on the page got dark. What was getting written wasn’t what I intended, expected, nor (in a sorta real sense) wanted.

But I kept pen to the pages. Really, what else was I to do? It was rich, mucky, fecund stuff—so what if it was tangenting in a unexpected direction? If the writing had been sunny and upbeat, I wouldn’t have stopped just because it wasn’t minding where I want it to go. Annie Dillard addresses this problem of the writing, specifically the characters, getting away from the writer: “What’s a god to do?”

I’ve mentioned in an earlier post the struggle between taking credit for the writing and being honest about it coming from Somewhere Else. How it still comes down to the gift and talent of being open, of getting out of inspiration’s way. Part of engaging in the dance is choosing when to lead, when to be led.

Too, there’s this: Sometimes there’s stuff that has to be written in order to get to the stuff that’s meant to be in the finished piece. Either that particular thread is en route to where you need to go, or it needs to be said and given its due so that you can move on to the “actual” writing. And, finally, there’s a whole can of worms that gets opened once you start in on a specific subject. There just may be more than a single essay waiting to be written about the Ark, my dad, and me. Unless I stay with the writing, no matter where/how it goes, I’ll never find out; the story to be told will never find its way through me.

Dad, in his element, feeding Canada geese. He and I had our issues; but this is how I prefer to remember my Old Man: this contented, this relaxed full-bore smile on his face.

Dad, in his element, feeding Canada geese. He and I had our issues; but this is how I prefer to remember my Old Man: this contented, with this relaxed full-bore smile on his face.

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Filed under Changing Perspective, Parental Passing, Staying With the Writing

Outta the Fog(?)

It’s been a month since I last posted. When the Thursday after my last post came, I was feeling kinda forsaken and forgotten, wondering whether I’d be missed, so I didn’t post. Pretty much the same thing, the following Thursday. And after that it became a combination of broken habit and feeling I’d nothing to say.

All this is but one outer manifestation of where I’ve been, moodwise. Not that I was in a bad place, but it wasn’t a good one, either. A dull disinterest, a just going through the motions. A being there without “being” there. We all go through such spells, I’ve been told; and I may be more susceptible than most. For what it’s worth, it does seem that I am coming outta the fog. (After all, lookit: a blogpost.)

I don’t know what got me started into the fog, just as I’m uncertain how I began making my way out. Again, this happens, and (I guess) it was my turn. Maybe both times.

Yeah, some of it was certainly vicious cycling. And, too, a smidge of self-fulling prophecy. I believed no one cared about, was paying attention to, what I wrote, so I stopped the writing, and when no one said anything, I took it as proof of my writing not mattering. (Again, “it happens to everybody.”)

Sometimes you do indeed have to “fake it until you can make it.” Or, rather, fake it so that you can make it. Forcing yourself to take that first step, and maybe no insignificant number of the following steps, gets you to where you’re walking without any assistance. (I hate these sorts of platitudes, and it bothers me further that they’ve wound up being true, but they’re what I have, so here they are.) The small, simple things—like forcing myself to get out and walk to the river (two whole blocks!), and spend some time there; sitting in front of the notepad or laptop and writing something, even if it’s “just” puttering for no more than fifteen minutes—have maybe loosened and opened me enough to get out of the puny vortex holding me in-place. Have gotten me to begin doing the very things that override the whispering pesky nattering doomsayers in my head.

This morning, I put the finishing touches on a book review, and also wrote down some thoughts that might cause two or who know how many other writings to come forth. And the wonderful thing is I had to force neither of these. There was this tickling inside, and I heeded it.

By the way, the end-of-street mountains, this morning:

What's visible of the Sawatch Range, this ides of March 2015 morning, from the middle of my street, in front of my front door.

What’s visible of the Sawatch Range, this ides of March 2015 morning, from the middle of my street, in front of my front door.

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Filed under Sorting It Out, Staying With the Writing

Stop Waiting

I spent at least half an hour, this afternoon, not knowing what to write for today’s blogpost. Time and again, what came to mind seemed self-indulgent (yes, even for a blogpost) or lacked substance. I coulda skipped the blogpost, waiting until next week or whenever inspiration finally struck. But I’m a writer, and am working on becoming a professional one. Waiting to inspired before I write is an indulgence I can’t afford. And I know from experience how often inspiration follows initiation. Professional writers simply clock-in and get to work, period. No ifs, no ands, no buts, no whining.

This kinda segues into whether one is supposed to write everyday. Well, the incredibly overwhelming majority of writers whom I know about do some sort of writing, each day. It’s like any other desired habit, it’s persistently attended to and done—even when it’s difficult, even when you don’t wanna. I know my own writing benefits when I make it a daily thing. To be sure, there are exceptions. Jane Hirshfield and (possibly) Kent Haruf come to mind. And when I’m consistently producing work anywhere near the caliber of Haruf’s and Hirshfield’s, I might reconsider.

But until then, it’s to be an every day thing.

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Filed under Honoring Your Writing and Your Being a Writer, re: Writing, Staying With the Writing

Something Different

So, it’s been over a month since I returned home from my tenure in Telluride. (I spent seven full days there, specifically to reassess and sort out my life, and even more specifically, my writing life.) I noticed today that I’m back to doing pretty much what I was doing before I left. My writing hasn’t improved because I’m still doing the same old same old.

I’m still squeezing my writing in where I can find a space for it, rather than making it moreso the center of my universe. Often, I finally come to it only after getting home from work, or from having done my running around. It’s something I get to when I have the time. When I can fit it into my day, having gotten the important stuff done.

Folks who saw my Telluride pictures posted on Facebook, and who read my blogposts for that week, are right in thinking I had a good time. But, (and especially if they only saw the pictures), they’re missing how my time there was more centered around my writing than my having fun.

Here’s one example. I missed the Blood Moon, because I was inside my hotel room, writing. I knew it was happening, wanted to see it, had even woke in time to do so, but I never even stepped outside to have a gander. Rather, I stayed with my writing.

But, meanwhile now, back here on the ranch, I’ve not been putting off doing wanted things, in order to stay at the desk writing.

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Those of you who have followed this blog for awhile know one of the things that troubles me is the lateness of my age in getting started with writing, compared with that of my contemporaries. Yesterday, when I mentioned to a local I’d not seen in a year or so that I was weary of my hospital job, and was wishing I could find something other and better, she encouraged me with, “You’re still young.” Now, she may not realized my actual age, but what she said does hold a good bit of truth. I do still have time. I am not out of contention. Not yet. Not by a long shot.

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Filed under Honoring Your Writing and Your Being a Writer, Sorting It Out, Staying With the Writing

What To Say, Another Day

Don’t know what to say. Thursdays typically do turn out to be my days to veg, where I kinda mope around the apartment, taking most of the day until I finally get out and check the mail, do my online stuff. I don’t know whether it’s a seventh day, sabbath sort of thing, or whether (maybe still much the same thing) it’s because I go back to work, early the next morning. I do know it seems I’m never able to get enough sleep. Thursdays, however, my body does seem more game to stay in bed, more hesitant to be up and moving about.

Still, I have to get done what I have to get done. Just because my body’s more agreeable to resting and sleeping doesn’t mean I can take the day off. Just because it’s my day off from the paying job doesn’t mean I can take it off completely.

On the plus side, there was snow when I woke this morning. Roughly two inches. It was below zero when I went out to shovel the sidewalk, so it was dry powdery snow. The sun was shining through the cloud cover. There was a brilliance to the early morning. Possibility seemed possible again.

P1010811 P1010818

But it’s five hours later on, and I’ve still not put any words to any page. I’m feeling nearly as dry as the snow. Definitely more socked in by clouds. Doesn’t seem much is possible, here at the writing desk. But just because it’s being an off day doesn’t mean I get to take it off. I still have to get done what I have to get done.

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