As you can see from the sidebar to your right, many of the blogs I read, and follow like a shy, snooty cat, are written by people of zest, creativity, and a strong work ethic. They know what makes them leap up in the morning, and they leap up to do that very thing. They are dead-set on becoming masters of their craft, be it drawing, silversmithing, cabbing, enameling, tooling leather, sewing, sculpting, or bookmaking. Their days are free, because they are so focussed that they find ideas and fresh inspiration everywhere.

These past few months, I have felt resistant to my own work. I've vaguely wanted to write, but I have not sat down at my writing table. I have not taken the notebook out of my purse, or kept it beside the bed at night. I've wanted to make things with my hands, to talk to my husband, to sleep, to wear lipstick, to cook, and writing became too alien an activity. I was afraid of being caught up in something that affects me like heroin, making the rest of life pale in comparison, driving me to distraction.

I am trying to break through. I am trying to accept the craziness of the writing life, because there is nothing I love better in the world.

I've started a new project. I am writing a short book of instructions on reading poetry, for the novice. I want visual types, and athletic types, and math types to understand poetry, and grow to love it. Many of them don't know how to approach a poem, I think.