One of Those Days

It’s been one of those days. A day full of interruptions. In other words—life. A writer’s dread.

I’ve been working on a few poems to enter in Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. This was something I told myself last year I’d do if I got feeling better—suck up my fear and just do.

Disregard the—what if I win? (Grand prize is $3000 cash and a trip to New York City to meet with editors or agents. I’m not sure I can get on a plane, let alone meet with an editor or agent living in New York. After all, I’m a small town coward)

Disregard the—what if I lose? (Does that mean I have absolutely no talent or chance? And if it does mean that what do I do then?)

So, here I am, with five poems I’ve been working on for a while, some since 2002, in fact. I love these poems, but I tend to love anything I’ve lived that long with, tended to, worked on. I have no outside readers, much as I need someone. Can husband or family be trusted to tell the truth or be willing to hurt my feelings if that’s what I need?

I have to make a choice between the five. I’m only going to enter two. How on earth do I pick? While I mull that over, I have people here stripping off the roofing from my house. You know, hammering, scrapping, talking. This, of course, had my dog barking and pacing, trying to ‘protect’ me, one of my cats hiding under the blankets, certain the life as she knows it is gone, the other cat on my lap wanting reassurance.

Oh, wait, I forgot about the car needing to be taken to be repaired, but as luck or love would have it, my husband took care of that. Forgot about the man coming to bid the rain gutters, but luck and love are still with me there, too.

It’s hard enough trying to pick a best poem—like picking a best child. Can’t really do it, but the noise and chaos doesn’t help. And on top of that are worries of my husband on the roof removing the air-conditioner to be replaced.

As I said, life goes on. It must. Writers must learn to live in that, even while the words won’t let them alone.

I’m determined to work at my writing, determined not to let this stress me (I’m not supposed to stress because of my MPGN. I’m supposed to watch my blood pressure. Make sure it doesn’t get too high, but how in Blue’s sake can I avoid days like these. Life must go on. And believe me, when it doesn’t—now that’s stress.)

So, here I am, at my desk Fleetwood Mac blaring from the stereo so I don’t hear what’s going on over my head, trying to write with one frightened cat huddled in my lap, another shivering beneath the blankets and a dog on patrol.

If I get nothing more done today than to pick the two poems to enter in the contest, I’ll have beat the odds. Don’t you think?