NaPoWriMo, the National Poetry Writing Month, begins in three days. Nothing like a deadline to light a fire under the caboose. Thirty poems in thirty days is no joke, but someone’s gotta do it.
This clayandbranches site has been a mere shadow of a thought for over a year. I may yet reach the conclusion that turning it into a thing was the worst idea EVER, but hey, what do I have to lose besides my dignity? If you think dignity has nothing to do with it, think again. For someone who’s been writing (mostly) in solitude, who constantly wavers between feeling ecstatic about her work or merely so-so (we won’t even mention the frequent bouts of doubt, despair, and despondency), opening the door of the workshop to the world, even if only to a small world of anonymous readers, is a potentially cringeworthy undertaking.
It’s as if I were trying to fly with no wings in the presence of a crowd who’s joyfully commenting on all that ridiculous arm flapping that doesn’t get me even an inch off the ground. Or as if I had only these thin paddle-wings made out of cardboard, a bunch of scrawny feathers tacked onto them with Elmer’s glue. Even Icarus was better-equipped than that and look what happened to him.
But. Wings or no wings, I’m going to write for thirty days anyway, come hell or high water.
I’m counting on the kindness of strangers. Support those amongst you who try to fly despite all signs pointing to an early watery grave. (A watery grave in a sea of anonymity, because why sound morbid if you don’t have to?)
At least, like Icarus, they embrace the hazard of flying with makeshift wings, getting to bask in the sun for a few short, but glorious moments.