I needed to write a poem today for the APPF, but I didn’t. I had a migraine for most of the day, and when I didn’t have a migraine, I didn’t feel like writing a poem. And now it’s 20 after 11 and I don’t feel remotely like doing anything poetic. Not that it matters, because the little book of postcards and the stamps for them are sitting in my office. I’ll have to write a couple of poems to make up for it tomorrow, and then get them all in the mail on Monday.
It’s kind of bad that it’s only the first of August and I’m already behind with the postcard poems though. The postcard that was for today I put in the mail yesterday or Thursday. It’s going to Ottawa, but of course it won’t arrive there till probably sometime next week. It costs 79 cents to mail a postcard to Canada. That seems awfully pricey, when it’s only about $1 to send a card-card to England. Oh well. I hope the person I sent it to likes it. The poem I sent was “Garden Variety,” the same one that Karen read yesterday on the Plinth. Which, while I’m thinking of it, I need to send to Christine Swint, because she wanted to read it.
I’m really amazed at people who can write in multiple genres. Right now I’m thinking of Collin Kelley, whose novel Conquering Venus, is coming out a little later in August, I think. He writes in all kinds of genres–poetry, fiction, news. Probably other genres I don’t know about. How do people do that? How do they have so much to say that they can say it in multiple genres?
I can’t write fiction. I’ve tried. It comes out dreadful. And it’s too bad too, because clearly I have a narrative strain in my poetry, and I have the desire to write fiction (and memoir, for that matter), and flesh out characters who do interesting things. Oh, maybe I don’t have The Great American Novel in me, but I might have an Entertaining Bit of Fluff in me. Or I would if I had an attention span longer than a gnat’s.
I suppose, like any writing, you have to work at it. But poetry is hard enough for me as it is, and I’m not nearly as dedicated to it as I ought to be. Can you imagine me trying to write a novel? I’d probably write 20 pages, get bored, and tack on a “The End” before my main character even finished her Cheerios.