Once upon a time, I was pretty prolific when it came to posting new work. I know the first few months of my now long tenure at Lit. averaged almost a new post a day. Nowadays I struggle to put out two to three quality pieces a month.
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What's the change in my life that has left my muse all but silent in the last nine months? I could chalk it up, to my recent marriage and the birth of my son, along with some drastic changes in my work life, but I'm afraid that wouldn't be accurate. The real reason for my lack of creative energy is the simple fact that I'm happier now than I've ever been.
Not that I'm complaining, make no mistake there. I am simply noting that as a poet, I am fueled by the unfortunate, tragic, and painful moments in life. Creating has always served as an outlet for those negative experiences, a way to make something beautiful and lasting out of something painful and fleeting. It's easier to write about pain and loss than to express contentment and peace. At least that's my experience.
I find myself wishing that I could be like other poets, such as Penelope who can take the simplest and most mundane of subjects and breathe life and magic into them.
Writing brings me a unique joy, and I find it horribly cruel that the emotional place I write from, so often has to be one of sorrow and regret.
That's all for now.
Smile if you're stupid,
laugh if you understand.