There will be no sex poems. The muse is no more.
In the near future expect me to write about me. Because, as James Baldwin wrote in Notes of a Native Son (and thanks to Alejandro, who recently posted this at Chief Writing Wolf): “One writes out of one thing only–one’s own experience. Everything depends on how relentlessly one forces from this experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give. This is the only real concern of the artist, to recreate out of the disorder of life that order which is art.”
For some my writing will be painful to read. This is not a mandatory class; you’re free to cavort around the Internet reading whomever and whatever you choose.
As for those who will not be happy that I am sharing their ugliness with the world, I offer this quote from Anne Lamott:
So here I head off on yet another path looking for what I want. Wonder what will happen this time?
Sitting in a salon chair
waiting for my hair
to transform from gray to red.
hearing these perfect wives
complain about their perfect lives.
I envy those I overhear.
I don’t belong here.