I have a love/hate relationship with social media, especially twitter, and the hate side keeps gaining ground. It’s not just the usual: the ugly politics, the righteous opinionated rants, the stupidity and falsehoods. The endless gifs and memes (ok, fine, I like those!)
For a writer, it’s the goddamned comparison.
And, every day, there it is, right in my face:
The Thief of Joy.
The comparison to other artists, other writers, that I can take. That is bearable. I’m always wishing for their success.
The comparison to — or within — the industry — from my very publishing…
The least I can do is write you a poem
I find myself in the city,
in my building (in this particular
I have the keys,
don’t have to ask for them, use the
a small one to collect mail that
take the elevator up (which I rarely did)
let myself in the apartment door
but inside are all
Still, I make myself
Sleepless in a Pandemic
I am trying to practice
to banish the word should from my
to fully internalize that the world has never been as it
only as it ever
In the mornings, I walk through my sleepy house
admiring the new couches
their calming blue gray hues draped with
cozy knit blankets, pompoms dangling
the carved wood tray bought at a
discount store, boasting
scented candles and glass bottles
now trailing roots from cut herbs,
(Upon waking early to a text from my son newly in LA)
I’ve been working too hard at
here, at the edge of this
convincing myself it’s
(mentally unwrapping the memory of
your small fingers
clutching my neck,
my heart argues not to).
Just another writer trying to stay afloat in a sea of words. Author of several novels. Wannabe mermaid. Mother. Trying to age gracefully with no grace in sight.