It's only been 4 days since my last confession because my last confession was late. But I'm here, hopefully, back on a more normal schedule.
Autumn is happening and it makes me feel nostalgic, sometimes lonely, sometimes sentimental. My emotions are all over the place like the leaves." A friend said, "There is so much changing outside, maybe you are just overwhelmed."
Either way, I need to take my vitamin D.
To the confessional--
I confess last night before going to bed I decided to open the PDF for my final proof Hourglass Museum to read it. I confess I liked parts of it, but then I got this huge awful feeling that it was terrible.
Somedays, I would love to be the artist with the giant ego, who believes all s/he touches is gold--everything I do is wonderful. Some days I want to wake up as Salvador Dali.
I confess I'd be really freaked out if I woke up as Salvador Dali, but imagine being Salvador Dali in the morning.
Every morning upon awakening, I experience a supreme pleasure: that of being Salvador Dalí, and I ask myself, wonderstruck, what prodigious thing will he do today, this Salvador Dalí.
I read once that John Berryman work up feeling like a genius, then went to bed feeling like a failure.
I understand that.
I understand the feeling of doubt. Of looking at your own work and wanting to run the other direction, or edit it. Some days I feel as I don't even know how to write a poem.
I confess last month I read my manuscript and liked it. This month, not so much.
This is how my writing life goes, one moment I'm in love with the clouds, the next moment, I'm dismantling the sky. I wish it was always perfect, but it never is.
I confess there are a few times I year I get so sick of the writing life I say that I'm going to stop and just a) mountain bike for a living b) paddleboard for a living c) decorate my house (for a living?) d) stay in bed.
Yes, I can do these things, but I have never written for a living, I write for a life.
Sometimes, it's painful. Currently, I am in love with my next manuscript--I have written one poem for it. But I imagine it being glorious, the heavens opening up and my manuscript fluttering on the shoulders of angels. Oh the beauty, everywhere the beauty...
I know this new manuscript will make me cry, doubt, fear, and feel anxious. (They all do.) And still, I show up to the page.
Sometimes I wonder if this is easier for men, for other women, for smarter people, for less smart people, for people who don't care as much or for people who care more. This is why I want to be Salvador Dali some days. But mostly, I'm not.
Mostly, I'm just trying my best.
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