Today I printed out the first final draft of my book of essays, Wondering the Pink. I do not know if this book is good or not, as a book, as a collection. I know that the pieces work own their own they stand alone. But is the collection really a book?
As a poet, figuring out books of prose is tricky. This collection is easier than the novel, at least it seems easier so far, But with me, the poetry poet poet in me full of poems, it's all about length. How many words do I need to get to strive toward march deep into the woods to get a book that is long enough to be a book? And really, this is even true with books of poems. For most contests, there is a range, usually 50ish-90ish pages. Which is dumb. Ariel, as published, was 43 poems.
And after having written so many things and being such an "out of the box broad" why the fuck do I care? Why not write an upside down book a backwards book a blank book a kiss my fucking ass book?
But on to it. I want to start reading the collection right now, but I need to leave it alone for at least a couple days. I have given it to Dale and Annette to read. I hope they can get back to me within a week. Which is a lot. But I am always eager. I keep thinking I could die before. Or my agent almost agent person could quit or die or be kidnapped before. Or the government could collapse before. Or everyone but me will die before. Or I'll climb under my bed and starve to death. Something.
Instead, I am going to look into the poems and start ordering them and figuring them out. And see what happens.
Oh. And I've learned a lot working on this collection. To relax. To be kind to my readers. To open the window so they can climb through and follow me down the hill.
I realize what I don’t know I realize. Please help me dear God to be a good writer and to get something else accepted. That is so far from what I deserve of course, that I am naturally struck with the nerve of it. Contrition in me is largely imperfect.