The above photo is from Sylvia Plachy’s Transylvanian Woods study. I love this photo, makes you wonder why they only saw werewolves.

It has been a strange poetry week. Yesterday I found out I didn’t get an award I was sure I’d win and then heard through the grape vine, it was b/c I didn’t have an MFA in creative writing. I always have this naïve idea the work matters the most in the end. I still believe it does, there are just some days where I don’t play the politics very well.

Today I got news I’d never thought I get and now I am trying not to think about it. I’m wondering what I will do with two months of free writing time. The girls at school. The bills paid with this grant. What if I fail? What if the only excuse “time” in not producing the book I see in my head is not really the reason it doesn’t happen?

I was talking to a friend tonight about how three years ago I had no doubts about myself as a poet and yet it seems like the closer I get, the more readings I do, the more I published I am, the less I feel like a poet. Doubts come rushing in and try to take up residence.

Here is the double sided sword: Collins says we create ourselves as writers, this persona yet I believe to write well you are your deepest self uncensored. I am most me and least me at the same exact spot.