Poets will know what I’m talking about. One minute you’re sitting there with a mountain of work. And a line or two just drops right in. It’s an assault on the spirit in a way, and there’s not much to be done about it. Then you’re off on that poetry tangent, the one that I call a creative seizure. Time ceases to be of consequence. I have burned dinner because of a poem.
Lately, there’s been a lot of commotion. I switched to a laptop for all my computing, keeping the desktop for our daughters. For some reason, the tech couldn’t get my email to switch over. I couldn’t get all my web site files to switch over. I’m trying to adjust to a tighter keyboard and I don't really miss the mouse that much. But I love the portability of the laptop. We moved my office to a bigger room, one with lots of windows and a view of the back yard. Much more creative environment. The claustrophobia I experienced in the smaller, windowless room (now a supply room) dissolved.
I realized yesterday I’m booked tightly with events, pretty much through early January, 2006. I’m hoping to take time off in December; if I don’t, I’ll be in trouble with my family. Received a review request from a distinguished writer from India; made my publisher and me feel good. Prepared the final outline and chapter-by-chapter summaries for my new book; wrote a few freelance pieces, got an assignment from a new editor who is very nice. Prepped news releases and the print newsletter for readers on my mail list; sent out the email newsletter. Skimmed the best-seller list and groaned.—Dracula, James Patterson and meeting people in heaven. Only McCullough’s nonfiction book saved me from going into an intellectual coma. I love that book.
So there it is. And sitting here, distracting me wildly, the poem I penned in the midst of it all.