Sometimes I write a poem. And I tool over its minutiae, make it whatever version of flawless is possible. Or I blast through it and judge it good enough, because even if it only exists on my thumb drive, it exists somewhere and the act of writing it has made me better. Yes, that's enough.
Other times, though, I write a poem, and I do these same things. And then I read it the next day, and I'm stunned by its lack of resonance. Its utter, terrible un-imagination. And I wonder, does that mean I'm meant to be an infrequent poet? That I should write more? That I should give up? That I am uncreative, unimaginative, myself? That I need to travel? To experience? To read more?
I don't have the answers, so I travel in my brain. And I create those places there. And I read. And I write. And I fail, fail again.
As my kids would say, "Miserable Moaning Mommy."
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