The old adage Be Careful What You Wish For is a wise piece of advice we'd all agree should be taken seriously. It applies to writers and poets, fighter pilots and zoo keepers, but for our present moment let's concentrate on aspiring full-time, Kamikaze poets who would, at some level, rather experience poetry at some elemental state than eat or sleep.
But with such obsession comes with it the responsibility of a hopeful epiphany, of some clarity in what's happening around you in life so that the writing is a reflection of something purposeful. At least all that's possible. And with such eventual clarity can come a resonance of purposelessness in routine and the old way. A painful skin-shedding.
If you've been blessed by how the bricks of life fell on you to try writing full-time for a while (that's code in this case for not having a job that would interfere with writing) which placed you fully where you dreamed of being all along, what you might find is that with this dreamy happiness comes the bliss of FINALLY seeing your priorities acted upon rather than the priorities of others running your life. This is an extremely rare occurrence and should be acted upon. In my case, I immediately enrolled in a MFA program in poetry, something I believe would round out a calling of purpose since I'd been meandering in writing for a few years half on my own as it was but needing true full-time instruction and mentoring.
When you're regular job becomes the awareness of surroundings, both the inner and outer worlds, in order to gestate poetry, you see a different realm after a while. Hopefully you're not just occasionally seeing poetry-inspiring glimpses in the world anymore since your cast-off mundane veil is raised, revealing what truly lives, or lurks, or both, out on and behind the stage for romantic pen-fodder.
But how are you supposed to digest all of this? Especially when so much of the "regular" world quickly begins to pale in comparison. You do realize, of course, that the color hues of the poet are both darker and brighter all at once? What words suffice in normal conversation about everyday weather after a while? How does one speak of politics, on a monster oddities such as Trump and Cruz within a normal lexicon when you've spent the day swimming the mind isles with Heaney?
And what if you find yourself in need of a part-time job, even to kill a bit of time, stretch the back a bit, give yourself some schedule, and you peruse the ads looking for such an opportunity, inspired like a good Bukowski job-masochist, and you page, and page, and page, and page, but even then everything you see makes you want to go run in traffic? Just remember: Be careful what you wish for.
But with such obsession comes with it the responsibility of a hopeful epiphany, of some clarity in what's happening around you in life so that the writing is a reflection of something purposeful. At least all that's possible. And with such eventual clarity can come a resonance of purposelessness in routine and the old way. A painful skin-shedding.
If you've been blessed by how the bricks of life fell on you to try writing full-time for a while (that's code in this case for not having a job that would interfere with writing) which placed you fully where you dreamed of being all along, what you might find is that with this dreamy happiness comes the bliss of FINALLY seeing your priorities acted upon rather than the priorities of others running your life. This is an extremely rare occurrence and should be acted upon. In my case, I immediately enrolled in a MFA program in poetry, something I believe would round out a calling of purpose since I'd been meandering in writing for a few years half on my own as it was but needing true full-time instruction and mentoring.
When you're regular job becomes the awareness of surroundings, both the inner and outer worlds, in order to gestate poetry, you see a different realm after a while. Hopefully you're not just occasionally seeing poetry-inspiring glimpses in the world anymore since your cast-off mundane veil is raised, revealing what truly lives, or lurks, or both, out on and behind the stage for romantic pen-fodder.
But how are you supposed to digest all of this? Especially when so much of the "regular" world quickly begins to pale in comparison. You do realize, of course, that the color hues of the poet are both darker and brighter all at once? What words suffice in normal conversation about everyday weather after a while? How does one speak of politics, on a monster oddities such as Trump and Cruz within a normal lexicon when you've spent the day swimming the mind isles with Heaney?
And what if you find yourself in need of a part-time job, even to kill a bit of time, stretch the back a bit, give yourself some schedule, and you peruse the ads looking for such an opportunity, inspired like a good Bukowski job-masochist, and you page, and page, and page, and page, but even then everything you see makes you want to go run in traffic? Just remember: Be careful what you wish for.
