For some reason, probably for many reasons, I stopped sending out. This is unusual, since once upon a time I was, shall, we say, fanatical about submissions. It was fun to have lots of packets of poems out with editors and, potentially, with readers.
And then, one day, it stopped being fun.
I don’t know what happened. Maybe it was a lack of confidence, or whatever, but the fact is three years ago I stopped after a hundred poems in print since 1985. Not a bad figure but certainly not that noteworthy. It certainly wasn’t enough to cause one to say OK, that’s enough, I can sit back now; maybe it was the idea of finally reaching triple figures. But 100 shouldn’t have been enough; I was still writing, if less regularly than before, and there was (and is) the excitement of Toronto. Maybe I got here and, well, froze. All right, I’ve frozen my ass off in this town but then again it ain’t Winnipeg either.
Granted, there are days where I seem to work better, or at the very least I find words on the page at session’s end. Still, those poems haven’t found their way out of the house. Or—not until today. Again, I don’t have reasons for my own situation aside from the same ones you’re likely facing.
Right now, just having sent off a couple of new poems is a small accomplishment, a necessary next step in a much longer process. The poems I’ve been lately writing are different, to be certain. I’ve long written about mortality but now the idea of simply getting old becomes as important as the endgame; it’s a reminder to me that there’s no end to potential subject matter. The writer can become less blind to events, suroundings, and possibilities, even if the writer is getting old.