It's the end of March. I've been writing at least one poem a day (sometimes more), every day, for over half a year now. I started living in this little oasis of insanity on the 15th of September, 2016.
I feel a little like a lone astronaut stranded in an orbiting craft, drifting to the dark side of a planet every day, losing contact, doing my thinking and writing in the dark (which I do a lot of in the early mornings and late night), until communication is restored with the light and I hear from my writing partner(s) before midnight with their daily poetry dispatch.
Of course, along with that drifting existence is the regular flow of rejections (submissions are a regular part of life after all, right?). I liken these to failed communications back to the planet. Something I've sent, something important. Something that failed to be understood, that has fallen flat, been scrambled beyond sense of my original language.
But then, occasionally, the math works out and someone returns the call: We hear you. We hear what you're saying. We will let them know you're message.
I feel a little like a lone astronaut stranded in an orbiting craft, drifting to the dark side of a planet every day, losing contact, doing my thinking and writing in the dark (which I do a lot of in the early mornings and late night), until communication is restored with the light and I hear from my writing partner(s) before midnight with their daily poetry dispatch.
Of course, along with that drifting existence is the regular flow of rejections (submissions are a regular part of life after all, right?). I liken these to failed communications back to the planet. Something I've sent, something important. Something that failed to be understood, that has fallen flat, been scrambled beyond sense of my original language.
But then, occasionally, the math works out and someone returns the call: We hear you. We hear what you're saying. We will let them know you're message.
