Today I have a long post on the Rabid Rainbow Ferret Society blog. I’m the middle post in a series known as “The Middle Years,” and I hope you’ll check out my post as well as the other ones already up. Stay tuned for two more weeks and we’ll finish out the series!
In my early years I was a novelist. That’s exactly how confused I was. To think I dreamed of banging out 100,000 words on the keyboard when today a solid piece of work might not even break the 100 mark.
(I still have ideas. Notions. Inklings… maybe one day I’ll return to playing with the “big stories”.)
Noveling actually taught me, by accident, that I was a poet.
My early years as a poet consisted of a few key points:
- Entering every contest I could find that I thought I could “win big” at and preferably cost less than $30 to enter
- Thinking up all of the amazing titles I could use for future poetry collections (I have whole lists in some of my poetry journals)
- Writing only when the mood, the air, the sunlight, the whatever seemed conducive for poetry
- Figuring out what exactly qualifies as “real poetry” (Hint…
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