...too much to finish-reading-slash-tell-you-what-I-think-about Juliana Spahr & Stephanie Young's article in the Chicago Review, ditto for Jennifer Ashton's in the same issue, ditto for the blog discussions about the articles and surrounding issues at Lorraine's, Simon's, and now at the Poetry Foundation blog. I also don't have time to tell you about the most unintentionally hilarious thing I have ever read on the internet, involving "encouraging women to write and applauding them when they do."
(I will take a second to say I cannot stand the phrase "I applaud" which always sounds insufferably condescending. Depsite this revulsion, I'm sure I've used it myself. Never again.)
I have too much to do to write new poems, or send old ones out. I can't even manage to feel guilty about these things. Even though I am supposed to.
The arguments about whether the internet is killing books, or digital printing resulting in crapbooks, luckily, are already over, despite some dogged participants not yet realizing it. So that saves me some time.
But I will count nothing, plan nothing, do nothing, say nothing much.
"I ain't got no kids" either, so that's not my challenge/dilemma/limitation/excuse.
I am simply too busy. With, you know, stuff.
Like sending out review copies of my book and Jen's book (& crossing my fingers a few women respond in print or pixels, you know, like in public, to either).
& helping with a feature for Delirious Hem.
& cooking: mashed turnips, a minestrone, a kohlrabi pudding, salmon with roasted-poblano-spinach-sauce.
& reading: Ben Friedlander's new collection, Laurel Snyder's and Reb Livingston's debuts, and that behemoth (and very masculine) novel Infinite Jest.
Last night I dumped my poetry "career" to go on a date with my husband. Because I like hanging out with him.
But maybe later.
If I feel like it.