Progress for Texas Men
After dealing with ten days of house guests, life’s starting to settle down around the old homestead, which means I have time to attack the huge stack of work that’s been growing babies in my inbasket.
I have over 4000 emails in my inbox to contend with—so if you’ve written me recently, I’m getting to you, I promise! I have a work in progress that’s getting whittled down, page by page, but now I really need to dive headfirst and “get ‘er done” (don’t you just hate that phrase!).
Like I needed to take time away from the keyboard, but today I went to a local writer’s meeting. Okay, I live in a small town, so I wasn’t expecting writers who are balls of fire, but I knew I was in trouble when every one of them were poets. I don’t write the stuff. I appreciate some classics (Shakespeare’s sonnets, Tennyson, Wordsworth, Browning), but I haven’t a lot of patience with the form because frankly, I want to tell a bigger story.
But I wanted to connect with local writers. So I went. I didn’t know I’d be expected to vomit a poem. The challenge was to write a poem with 2 syllables in the first line, 4 in the next, 6, then 8. Here it is, and now you’ll know why I never aspired to be a bloody goddamn poet.
heels clicking on hot black tile,
I rush toward a shining night
You’d think that would have been more torture than a body could stand, but I promised to come back next month. I even accepted an assignment to come up with another poem. Now, poems are flying through my mind, but nothing I can bring to that group because they’re all kinky as hell.
I complain, but I really enjoyed visiting with the little group, although I should have known I wouldn’t find any other erotica writers when I realized we were meeting in a rest home. :ohh: