I had been dating DP for a few months when one of my sisters asked me whether he and I were serious or just having fun. You mean I can’t have both? This was round about the time I was missing poetry group because I couldn’t keep track of the time; I was goopy, I walked around with a stupid smile on my face. Nights we weren’t together, we giggled on the phone. He’ll say it was a manly chuckle, but I know what I heard.
I’m trying out a writing group for prose. They asked me if I was a serious writer. The first phrase I thought of was I’m serious like a heart attack. Betsy asks if we know what the fuck we’re doing. Yes. Sometimes my readers have to kick me in the head about it, but I know in my heart of hearts that they are right. That knowing is what counts.
I’m starry-eyed serious. I know what I want my book to look like on the shelf. It’s been almost ten years since the MFA (I just died a little inside writing that) and I’m still writing. I can’t keep my stupid goofy comments to myself. Back when I worked at [name redacted], my colleague couldn’t meet my eye during meetings because we would both crack the fuck up just because we were there. And editorial meetings can be ridiculous. I’m funny. I’m serious. I can’t keep my mouth shut. I’m writing.
What about you?