I'm in a cool group. To stay on top of my writing, and to promote and market my poetry, I often publish online. If Lord Byron could hear that.
In this place that I belong, I have deadlines. I procrastinate until the very last day, and then scribble some ****** lines and get angry with myself for putting the writing off.
I have a couple of weeks before I need to write a sonnet or villanelle. I'm getting anxiety. It's not producing the desired effect of hard work or discipline. No Not that. It is getting me thinking. That is sometimes productive, and usually comical.
I'm thinking about the 15 months I've been sober. For many years, I was miserable. Drinking and writing. Writing and drinking. Holding the bottle of ***** to my shivering lips to get the last spider of liquid. My clothes smelled of decay and cowardice, and everything tasted like rotten meat.
Now, I have a beautiful maple desk that my three cats like to sleep on while I write poems about procrastination and sobriety. Such fuzzy black miracles. They twitch as they dream of fish and catnip, and just maybe they dream about writing a sonnet for me. We are all addicted to something.
Check out my youtube channel where I read from my recent book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lgXtR-Z6G9s