I spent most of today reading blogs. I follow a few that I enjoy and a few more that I really should read but don't find time to. So today I took the day to read all of the blogs I follow. Did you realize that Miss Snark has stopped blogging... since 2007? Wow, I missed that. No really, I wish I had been reading her blogs when she wrote them but I had just recently added her to my list and today I finally got around to reading it and lo and behold I am late for the train once again. OK, that used up my allotment of cliques for the day. And I did in only one sentence! Yippee!
I am writing like this 'cause I know no one will read this but me. Some bloggers have this huge following and they are quoted and gushed over and recieve blog awards and all kinds of neat stuff, and me, well, nah, no one reads so I can say anything I want. lol
Heck I could add pictures of my dog and cat and no one would see them. But that is not why I have this blog. This blog is to get over being a reluctant author. To clear the cobwebs out of my brain and to write. I sometimes wonder if I have a fear of sucess. If I finish the books they will be well recieved, if they are well recieved then I will be in the spotlight, if I am in the spotlight everyone will find out what a huge phoney I am. If they find out I am just a fraud then they will stop reading my writing and then I will be back the way I was... so why write the damn things? Right? Wrong. I want to write because I enjoy putting words together and making them sing a song.
My best girlfriend and I read to each other every week. A few weeks ago she read me some of her poetry. It was stuff she had written to help her get over her childhood. And I had a difficult time telling her what I thought of it. Then Sunday I was out walking my dog with my new friend and her dog (the dogs are both collies and they just love each other!) and I finally figured out why I had such a difficult time telling her how I felt. Her work was not poetry. It was just her rambling on about how much she hated her childhood and how no one else in her family understood why they were so f''d up except her. That to me is not poetry. But I couldn't tell her that, cause I knew what she was doing. I had had to do it too awhile back. My therapist called it "reparenting" yourself. Now, I think her stuff could have been poetry. If she had constructed it just a bit differently. And I don't mean every other sentence should rhyme or anything like that. Poetry should have a rhythm, a pace, a beat. No matter what the words are they should flow together and blow the back of your mind out! That last was my ex's criteria for good poetry. Her poems did not. Now don't get me wrong. She is an awesome writer! I love listening to her stories. She is a fine and dandy story teller, in fact I am surprised that she hasn't been published yet, but as a poet... she should just for-get-about-it. There I said it and I am now ashamed of myself. She is my friend and I should support her. Give her good feedback just like she gives me. But maybe this was just a tad bit too close to home. Well, I'ved finished my glass of wine and have run out of crap to say...
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