It’s 4 a.m. and I am waiting for the singing of the lawn sprinklers. It’s nearly time for Morning Joe. I have been thinking about Minnesota, and what it has cost me to have left my great start as a poet there in 78 to come back to Colorado and take care of my mother.
A daughter always feels she has to do that. I left behind my career– something irreplaceable that I can never reclaim. Everyone I knew in Minnesota has gone on and done amazing things, published amazing things. I wonder if any of the writers published by the press I just withdrew a submission from felt the same way about their books, if any of them felt dissed and forced to sell out to someone they didn’t trust to have the book appear.
I don’t know why I didn’t trust it, except that my ability to trust left me a very long time ago. I am at this writing extremely tired. I believe in my beautiful book and I wasn’t about to let someone tell me how it should be different from what it is. I know that I am at least as good and probably better than the Minnesota poets coming up after me published by that very press.
How can I not care about what happened? People who weren’t really true poets in my not so humble opinion have found niches, gotten grants.
I wonder if it’s me? But I don’t care. It’s late– in the year, and in life, and we all have the convention to think about. I heard that some Texas judge is predicting civil war if Obama is reelected. Well, get out your muskets, then.
I am tired. My life feels far too burdensome to keep putting up with. Perhaps I have to let my Minnesota years, my aching for a rowhouse on Ramsey Hill, all the longing to go back to reclaim something I think is there for me, is not there. It’s all competitive as hell. There are too many writers, too many literary egos, and The Loft is no longer a small second floor of an old building on the East Bank of the Mississippi.
I am tired, and my pride will kill me.