I’m two for two writing new shit this week and bout to go three for three. Can’t believe it’s Wednesday. Can’t believe I don’t know the day of the week anymore. That I have no reason or need to know. It could be Saturday or Tuesday or Friday. Who cares? My daily chore calendar keeps me honest, though. Grocery day is Monday, trash goes out on Wednesdays, and every Tuesday I wash the bedding and towels. But I don’t wanna talk about chores, I wanna talk about new writing.

In the words of the once-upon-a-time-famous Sheryl Crow, “There’s such a muddy line between the things you want and the things you have to do.”

I had previously convinced myself that I just couldn’t. Maybe I was some imposter or not good enough. Or maybe I didn’t have any left in me. Poems, that is. Maybe they all dried up or moved onto other hosts that were more open to the magical channeling that brings them into existence. But that, my friends, is fake news. I just have to believe in myself. Have to rewind myself to a mindset that what I’m writing matters even if it’s just for my own satisfaction. Or enjoyment.

How could I forget the joy that comes from finishing a new poem or taking a draft and making it shine? I’ve always loved both facets of the writing process. But I forgot about the magic of it because the focus along the way (ie these last few years) became publishing. I think I have the MFA program to thank/blame for that.

During the program, or maybe after, once I quit my job, it became ingrained in me that my self-worth as a writer, and even as a person, was somewhat tied to publishing. I might’ve mentioned this recently. I’m trying to decouple this notion of worth from what I am able to or not able to publish.

I see poems in my inbox from places like Rattle, which I deeply respect and would love to be published in. I think to myself damn that’s a good poem, but mine are good too, so why do they keep rejecting me? I don’t really get it. (I mean to say I get it but then again I don’t). I’ve submitted to Rattle like a dozen times over the last four years, to different calls: the Rattle prize, the quarterly issue, ekphrastic challenge, but they’ve all come back, heads hanging low with rejection. It makes me feel like shit.

So this decoupling is important.

But more important than that is the fact that writing has always been a big part of my life, for as long as I can remember. No matter how you slice it, giving up on writing new stuff is really a bummer. So I don’t just need to separate publishing from my self-worth, I need to separate writing in general from it. Somehow I need to try to not think about what it is and why it is or what people might think of it.

Just write and say, I don’t give a fuck. If I’m enjoying myself, or getting some sort of cathartic value from it, just efffffing write. If it’s about comparing the moon to swiss cheese, just write it. If it’s about my stupid forever returning broken heart, just write it. If it’s cliche, or too clever, or too abstract, or whatever, just write it. I’m writing this now to help myself learn this valuable lesson. To make it true and solidify it in my brain. I’m writing this now because I want to and that’s as good a reason as any to keep doing it.

Good gravy, I felt so compelled by my own self-pep talk just now that I went and tweeted about it. Now you know that shit is getting serious if I’m breaching the threshold of the social media underworld to spout about it. Annnnnd, I brought extra attention to myself by dragging the TBQ in with me. The Universe help me.

Anyway. Like I said, it’s Wednesday, trash day (and recycling), and I’m gonna try to make it three for three on the week so far with new (kinda, sorta, maybe, just a little bit) poems.

Peace and Love,
~Miss SugarCookie