Now, I journal about my days, copy favorite poems, and every now and then I notice something that I try to fit into a poem. The words come, but what do they say? I'm not a pastoral poet. I am not trying to communicate my love of summer evenings. I'm no Allen Ginsberg. I am not trying to describe getting drunk or the misguided politics of 2017. I'm a dad. I'm an educator on summer vacation. I'm a writer with nothing particular to say.
Monday, July 10, 2017
A writer with nothing particular to say
Flirting isn't the right word. I am teetering with the idea of being a writer. It is unsteady and lonely. I like to write. I love to read. I know that I am capable of penning my thoughts. I can definitely structure my days (blocking out specific time) to include writing. Hell, I got my Master's and PhD while working and having kids. I'm no stranger to late nights. The difference? With those, I had something specific to say. I had a required format to communicate my ideas. I wrote essays and papers and theses and a dissertation: hours and hundreds of pages. It was difficult and sometimes I just wanted to go to bed, but the words always came. They always came.
- ▼ July (11)
- ► 2006 (17)