In the still office I concentrate to muse about my abilities to accomplish the life I want. These musing started a few weeks ago as I have previously noted when Sandy asked if I was writing. During this upheaval in my life, someone else who has been dear to me throughout the years (Meredith has seen it all with me) also asked if I still wrote. At that time I admitted that my pen was silent and even though she never typed a word in the IM, her disappointment in me rang in my ears.

With poetry I started up again. I find I can convey a message in this form in a short amount of time. Makes me feel as if I accomplish something, even when I don't have the gusto to write. A funny thing happened on the way to the poet's house. It dared me to start thinking about what was important. How I felt. Deep self examination of my spirit and I didn't like what I saw or heard. But I began writing again and it rekindled my excitement for the craft.

I rediscovered a poetry board to post my stuff. Immediate feedback on what I'm writing is a powerful drug to me. You scrounge for the right words and test them in your head and then the imediate impression it makes becomes addicting. One fallout with this method is that I'm not sure if I'm improving in the craft. Are my poems stronger, tighter and better as I write more? Or am I adding more electronic swill to the internet stewpot? I guess the same could be said for the things I compose here.

See I still have this innate fear of thinking I'm not very good. And all these people are feeding marshmellow fluff feedback to hide their true feelings to protect themselves or me. Which I think is hogwash, but in the back of my mind I play with the idea like a ping-pong ball. Back and forth I try to discover why people think I have this talent for words. My grammar sucks, I fight to spell words and I don't think I stack up within the realm of the proper literary world. In fact I feel as if I don't really have that much to contribute other than my own voice.

My writing voice is what makes me the writer I am. I've never sought to study any one style. I think it has been homogenized over the years by the vast number of writers I have read. I've never studied the true art of poetry. In fact, most poetry bores me. Heh. I don't think I'm supposed to admit that. Now there are some poems and poets that astound me and I love reading them over and over, but I'd rather involve myself in a good novel.

What is all this drivel about then? It means I must trust my on instincts and if I really love to write as much as I profess then there will be someone out there willing to read it. Now I need to open the muse and let the stories out that have been trapped while I rummage through the refuse of my life. I have my purpose (see Gary Larson's farside cartoon about Edgar finding his purpose) again. In fact I have two new purposes, but they are intertwined together. In fact, so much so that one might fail without the other. This of course will be seen and it all might be hogwash, but that is how I'm treating it for now. My focus is on a few matters at hand and the rest they say...will be history in the making.