March the only month that is also a verb, and frankly that’s what the month is feeling like, a march through the weeks, doing my best to just get through time. At the beginning of my work day, I am marching through to the end, waiting to go home so I can wait to feel better. Normally my early, cold spring doesn’t have this level of ennui; mine is definitely tempered by an obnoxious cough that won’t go away and the end of my writing class with David Wagoner. It leads me to think a lot about where I want to go with my writing career, which is inexorably tied to my life path.
In pondering my writing, I’ve realized two things: one, my prose really is good enough to polish up and submit to some places. I once did an experiment of submitting one piece a month, and I had a poem published four months in. Pretty good, I’d say. It’s time to do that again, and I think I found an anthology to submit to for this month. Two, I totally lust after grad school and exclusive, expensive writers’ retreats. Time to get a portfolio together!
There’s something about March. It’s far enough into the year that you need to start meaning what you say. It’s a month where you shit or get off the pot. I’ve noticed this trend in my friends: several of my artist buddies are spending their Marches buckling down and getting serious. Well, me too. My hope for the rest of the month is that my body heals enough to march along with my mind.