There are a few drawbacks associated with being a writer, one's own publicist, and having an always busy life ... one of which is: finding time to write. Even this blog suffers delayed posts from time to time.
With blogging, there is a cardinal rule of: post regularly and post on time. I've never greatly appreciated rules, (except for those that govern my writing style), but I do strive to follow this one.
Meanwhile, with a weather eye on my bulging calendar, as I wade through flurries of post-it notes, I find myself involved in successive, unexpected, and always urgent tasks, which are usually wholly unrelated to poetry or to my current writing project.
Always, there are promotional events to search out, secure, and schedule, and a few remnant bookstores to approach in hopes that they will, for a fee, graciously stock a few copies of Echoes.
This afternoon, I made my way to a local venue and finalized arrangements for a book reading/signing event, which is now slated for January 10th and ... wait, there's the phone again ...
... So, within this maelstrom of myriad activities, where does one find time to actually write? At this moment, I am two days late in posting here, and have written neither jot nor tittle, in my book.
Yet, potential tidbits do get through occasionally. Just this morning, I realized an important edit that I need to make to an older poem, and once I have posted this blog entry, I will go to work on Emery before my busy, upcoming weekend elbows all else aside.
This life of mine is rather like juggling feathers and rocks and fistfuls of sand while maneuvering through a seemingly endless labyrinth. It can easily lead to exhaustion, exhilaration, or even anxiety, but in my sometimes down time, I finally, thankfully, actually get to write.
With blogging, there is a cardinal rule of: post regularly and post on time. I've never greatly appreciated rules, (except for those that govern my writing style), but I do strive to follow this one.
Meanwhile, with a weather eye on my bulging calendar, as I wade through flurries of post-it notes, I find myself involved in successive, unexpected, and always urgent tasks, which are usually wholly unrelated to poetry or to my current writing project.
Always, there are promotional events to search out, secure, and schedule, and a few remnant bookstores to approach in hopes that they will, for a fee, graciously stock a few copies of Echoes.
This afternoon, I made my way to a local venue and finalized arrangements for a book reading/signing event, which is now slated for January 10th and ... wait, there's the phone again ...
... So, within this maelstrom of myriad activities, where does one find time to actually write? At this moment, I am two days late in posting here, and have written neither jot nor tittle, in my book.
Yet, potential tidbits do get through occasionally. Just this morning, I realized an important edit that I need to make to an older poem, and once I have posted this blog entry, I will go to work on Emery before my busy, upcoming weekend elbows all else aside.
This life of mine is rather like juggling feathers and rocks and fistfuls of sand while maneuvering through a seemingly endless labyrinth. It can easily lead to exhaustion, exhilaration, or even anxiety, but in my sometimes down time, I finally, thankfully, actually get to write.
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