Greetings from the whiney division of Fangs and Clause Central. I’ve been in a raging snit for a few days now. I’d like to blame the weather, except that it’s gorgeous out; my husband, except he’s doing nothing wrong; and the Republicans, well I might have a point there, but it’s really the writing that’s causing my malaise.
1. Books are long. They take a lot of work. I’ve got to move on from my days of fabricating a viable poem draft in three hours. I have months before I’m even ready to send this shit out to my friends for a second opinion, much less a second draft.
2. OK, maybe I did send something out to some friends anyway, including the man I married. They gave me some very reasonable advice. But I was not ready. They forgot to tell me what I was doing right. My husband reminded me that he doesn’t even like “Creative Nonfiction.” (Goddamned fiction writers.)
3. Maybe their feedback did lead to some soul-searching about the viability of my chapters. I’m a poet! How am I supposed to tell a story? Fuck.
4. And I probably should have stopped reading “A Long Goodbye.” Ms. Poet-Pants wrote a grief memoir with a few fantastic scenes, a complete lack of development of secondary characters, and a whole boatload of whining and lack of showing not telling,
5. which makes me worried I’m going to do the same damn thing. (Except for the characters, I’m good with characters.)
6. The radio announcer just told me to go out and enjoy the flowers, work in the garden, and oh let’s not forget mother’s day. Well, Ms. Radio Announcer, my flowers are riotous in a completely weed-infested garden; I have writing to do; and my mother died two years ago, thanks so much for reminding me.
7. Phew. How do you cope when your moods are at odd to the weather? Why am I never maniacally cheerful in February?
7a. For those of you (you know who you are) who call me when I write posts like this, don’t worry. I’ll be fine, I have to vent writing rage somewhere, and the man I’m married to is sick of hearing it.