Life, Friends, is Not Boring. It's Just Cold.

According to this here online journal/blog, the last time I updated was near Halloween. Which was nearly 3 months ago. Occasionally, when I worry about not posting enough, the worry turns into a slight (or severe) phobia and then I just give up and won’t post at all. I’m not saying that’s what happened, but maybe something a little like that. The longer I went without talking over here, the more I felt some desperate need to explain what I’ve been doing with myself for the last 3 months, like confession. Blogger, forgive me, it's been 3 months since my last ramble.

Most of November was spent in California visiting family and friends, writing, and working freelance. Both brothers visited, wine tasting was accomplished, beer tasting was accomplished, major dog-love was accomplished. While were were out there in Sonoma (my heart, my home), I wrote an essay for Jennifer L. Knox’s Chick Flix series over at Delirious Hem, which then got picked up for inclusion in the next edition of the best-selling textbook, The World is a Text.

Most of December was spent in New York City, and upstate New York, visiting family and friends. I read for The College of New Jersey for INK, and the conversation afterwards was amazing. We talked about love and how to stay present in the world, and crushes, and heartbreaks. It was a supremely satisfying evening full of hungry young souls and a great open-hearted conversation about creating. Then back to Sonoma, California for more Valley love and old elementary school friends (the Dunbar Demons reunited), then back to New York again where I got to catch up with friends that I'd been sorely missing. 

Most of January was spent right here in Kentucky working hard on the ongoing novel. I
finished a strangely gratifying 6^th draft that someone may or may not be reading right now. (I’m trying not to think about it.). Luckily more freelance work came and it was work that I love. Then, my online class with the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center launched on January 7. (It's truly a wonderful workshop, I'm not lying.) Then, there has been the great return to poetry, poetry, poetry. I am trying to write a poem a week in 2013. So far I have five, so I'm right on track. It helps if you make yourself do every assignment you give your students. Also, I had two poems come out in TriQuaterly Online and one of them got picked up for Poetry Daily. Oh and Adam Clay and I started a reading series here in Lexington, KY called The Black Sheep Reading Series. We are still getting it off the ground slowly, but it’s so good to have poets visit and bring us work and life and laughter and a reason to toast.

Still, like everyone, I look around and say, “Whoa where did all that time go? What have I been doing with my life?” It turns out that life, friends, is NOT boring. (Forgive me John Berryman). Yesterday, all day, I kept thinking. I want to write something really fantastic. (I’m not making that up.) That’s what I kept saying to myself. In between work emails, and dog emptying, and my daily exercises, I’d stare at the screen, or pour tea, and I'd think, “I want to write something really fantastic.” But I didn’t. Oh sure, some poetry was revised, and I did some good work here and there, but nothing earth shattering. Still, I keep going, like a slightly busted up car that still starts and is happy when that’s all that’s required of it.

And here we are; the first month of the year done and accomplished and complete. It's cold outside (9 degrees!) and I am still wishing for warmth. Snow is on the woodpile and these days the dog rushes indoors quickly to her favorite heater vent in the kitchen and shoves her face right down in it to get warm. I suspect, like all poets, I am terribly anxious for spring. I will be another year older in March, a new poetry tour will begin in April. And life will continue to not be boring, even if sometimes we wish it so. All year, I will attempt to write something fantastic; hopefully all my pretty little failures in between will keep me warm until then.