3:00. 10 pages done, a conclusion and intro to go. Why do I push things to the wire? Why, why, why, she asked rhetorically...
David tells me that I misquoted above. If I did, it was a paraphrase. So there.
Rather than reading my silliness, why don't you go read some Strange Horizons instead? The conclusion to Madeleine's story, brief and lovely poem, a review and an article -- and be sure to check out what may be the start of a raging argument in our Feedback section about the article...what do *you* think about sex roles in Heinlein? Does Friday get a raw deal? I do love me some controversy....
4:00. Finished. I can't quite take it in. I need to throw on some clothes and go hand it in and I suspect that only once I get home will I actually understand that I'm finished for this semester, and even then perhaps not. And part of me wants to collapse and just do nothing, or play the Sims (which I did for many hours yesterday and two more this morning, I suspect a reaction to having too many deadlines for too long), but already today I've posted to a mailing list offering to organize two events because I think they ought to be done, and someone should do them, and if not me, then perhaps no one...and that's the way it goes, no? I was being interviewed once and they asked me what advice I would give to young writers and I ended up telling them to volunteer for things, to not be afraid to give yourself away, because if you keep offering to help, wonderful things will happen to you. Sometimes helping means giving up your stories or poems, sometimes giving other words, sometimes giving your time. This journal was started for you, but mostly it's turned into something for me, that gives back to me far more than I give out to you. Strange how that works. So although I have to be a little careful not to give too much away, not to say 'yes' to more requests than I can possibly manage, in the end, I am happiest when I say 'yes' as much as I possibly can.
In 1993 and 1994, I spent a lot of time on a newsgroup, rec.arts.poems, giving away my poems for fun and pleasure and friendship. Ralph Cherubini, one of the fine poets who spent time on that group, used to write poems to me. In them, he often made me into someone finer than I thought I really was. I kept them, to remind me of the person I could try to be.
Your resistance to being perceived as a strong effective poet
perhaps some residue
from a time
perhaps a lifetime
when you felt
not what something within you said you should be
it is not up to you
the truthfulness of your heart
all you can do is foster it
You still have a choice.
You can say "no" some days
you can say "yes" some days
I have known you to say