Social Media Overload, Solitary Media Underload....

First, a list of the different applications and social media whatnots on my phone:

Facebook
Twitter
Tumblr
Instagram
Pinterest
Tinder
Google+

Next, a list of the times I've written something personal, something for myself this week:

Zero. 

This is a problem. I'm spending too much time talking to other people and not enough talking to myself. It would be great if I could compose a diary entry, at least, or edit a poem in complete silence (on a piece of paper with a red pen or something, not on the laptop where someone can IM me).

And to top it off, I've been bitching and moaning about being uninspired and not writing enough.

Sigh.

It's not just me though. (Not that y'all thought it was.) I mean, when I ask a certain teenager whose name shall be unmentioned to write one of the poems for his poetry booklets on a sheet of real paper, I get a reaction like, What? Real paper? Retype it later? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? 

And, as usual, I have trouble arguing my point of view. That there is nothing to distract you from your own ideas with a sheet of paper and a simple writing utensil. And when I (or you) feel less distracted from our own ideas, perhaps we feel less competitive and more peaceful.

I love ideas more than anything in the world, and I love the ideas of others. But I get so freaking bogged down by all the ideas at my fingertips these days, it almost paralyzes me.

If that writer said that beautiful sentence, what will I say? 

Well, the answer is my own beautiful sentence. And who gives a crap if anyone but me reads it? Good gravy, I remember being an adolescent and not even wanting to share my work with anyone. Now, I'm an adult, and it's like if i don't get approval from the masses then i might as well die.

I don't think this attitude is helping me get better.

It's not that I never put down my devices -- i do it every night, right before bed, when i read an actual book or magazine (not on an e reader) before drifting off. But I'm going to have to do better than that.

I'm going to have to start capturing the world in a tiny notebook that I keep in my purse again, just like I did before I became a slave to something outside of myself.

That's all for now.

A Different Kind of Business Profile.

At Mount Pleasant Magazine we do a great many business profiles for East Cooper companies -- and as managing editor, I strive for profiles that are well done and interesting -- even when it's a topic that doesn't strike a chord within me personally.

Other times, something does strike a chord, yet I have to keep the business profile ...business-like. Not so on my blog, however! So, in the spirit of letting y'all know how I really feel about a particular business here in Mount P, I decided to post about Celadon, one of our advertisers in the spring issue.

Once upon a time, my best friend Anna had me over for dinner at her house on a weekly basis. She had this really great shrimp pasta, with cheese sprinkled on top, that she would make on Sunday afternoons, and she served it in these elegant bowls that were higher on one side than the other.

We'd talk about our lives, and I'd look around her apartment, admiring her ever-elegant taste. She had a sofa that I downright coveted. Though she'd generously given me her former sofa, a hand-me-down i accepted gracefully, I couldn't stop myself from lusting after the new sofa in its soft teal hue.

We'd sit in the living room after dinner, and she'd light a couple of fancy candles with matches that she retrieved from a long box embossed with birds unfurling their lavender wings. I know -- at this point you're thinking it all sounds frivolous. And perhaps it was. But it was beautiful to me; the trinkets that Anna shared inside her home seemed to go so well with our conversations about love, our careers, our destinies as poets and our goals for the future.

Celadon happened to be one of Anna's favorite places in Mount Pleasant to find everything, from her furniture to her dish towels. There were a couple of occasions when she'd drag me inside the store to look at something -- until I realized I didn't need to be dragged; I wanted to shop there. But, unlike Anna, I couldn't afford much.

After Anna passed away a few years ago, I found myself venturing into Celadon from time to time. I found myself looking at things that I know Anna would have liked and thinking back to her apartment: about the bookshelves, stacked with volumes of poetry, and the coffee table, spread with papers to grade, half-written drafts and nubby candles that smelled of hyacinth.

It's interesting how mere things cannot possess any meaning unless we assign meaning to them. When we do, they become almost like living things, despite being objects.

One day, I bought myself a long box of those matches. I don't remember what I paid for them. I loved them so dearly, I kept them in the room with me all the time. And whenever I'd light something with their flames, I'd think of Anna.

Anna, reading a poem at a coffee shop. 

On Inspiration, and How the Three Day Guest Rule Doesn't Apply.

It never ceases to amaze me how inspiration strikes. Of course there are all the usual places (like sitting on my couch and drinking coffee, which seems to be a standard for artists) but once in a while, inspiration happens in such an awkward way that you can't help but take notice.

I just got back from a stellar trip to Auburn, Alabama, where I attended a writing conference for the first time and totally got back into student-mode faster than you can say "MFA wanna-be." In particular, I loved my short story workshop and my poetry workshop; both the instructors were really cool; I bought their books and got them both signed. It was a great trip, and I'm thankful for all the interesting trips I've taken this year -- Nashville, Florida, Charlotte, Auburn -- but when I got back, my friends kept asking me what I wrote while I was in Auburn. And the truth is, I didn't write much, except for workshop notes on how to craft poems and stories. I was like a sponge there, soaking it all up so I could wring it out later when the time was right.

One incident of this "wringing" came a week later, when I had the annoying and disappointing experience of driving 40 minutes in traffic to see this dude I was quasi-interested in, only to have him announce to me that he was "smitten" with someone else. It was not a big deal (I barely knew him) but really, what a waste of gas -- he could have texted that before I got on 526 during rush hour, right?!?

Anyhoo, so I went and had a drink by myself, feeling sulky. And lo! before I knew it, I had my phone out, typing an entire section of my memoir on the bar top, wishing I'd brought actual pen and paper so people wouldn't think I was texting someone with that furiously engaged look on my face.

Another time in the last week, I was fretting over the fact that I had not written so much as an introduction for a magazine article that was due right away. Then, Saturday morning while I was babysitting my best friend's son, I had this incredible first sentence pop into my head while I was lounging in their front yard, soaking up the autumn rays. Again, I got my phone out and typed a few lines (I've become quite the pro at emailing myself phone memos) and felt thrilled to have the hardest part of the article finished. Because, really, once you write a killer first paragraph, the rest just tumbles out.

For as many years as I've been a writer, none of this should surprise me. I know good and well that inspiration is like a butterfly, true love, boiling water or anything else that arrives when you aren't watching the doorway like an overeager freak. So maybe it's not surprise I'm feeling after all. Maybe it's joy at inspiration's arrival.

She's one guest in my life whose welcome is never worn out. In fact, I think I'd let inspiration rent my walk-in closet or couch-surf for as long as she wants to stay with  me.

Auburn's campus. 

Autumn Harvest (of Ideas).

Friends, it has been a long time. I haven't blogged in several weeks and I've missed it.

But, as each of you probably knows, there are times when we must absorb the strangeness and the mystery of life like a sponge and do little else. As a writer, I feel that every summer is mostly like that. The cooler months are more reflective for me and are when I do my best writing. Meanwhile, during the warmer months, I tend to sit back and simply take life in.

There has been plenty to take in this summer, most of it good but some not so great. Today, I received the heart-wrenching news that Georgetown, SC, suffered an extensive fire that devastated many of the riverfront businesses. One of those businesses was Harborwalk Books, an independent bookstore that housed many volumes of poetry. In fact, though I only visited the store once, I bought a book of Adrienne Rich's poems over 4th of July weekend, on the way to Litchfield to spend the holiday with my family. I remember exclaiming how great the poetry selection was. I will miss the opportunity to visit again.

There are many other things that struck me this summer. I can't write about them all, but I know that they will resurface in my own poems and prose as the days shorten and I cover my arms with the comfort of long sleeves. Fortunately, I'm kicking writing season off the right way this weekend - I'm visiting my beach house in Litchfield with a few of my dearest poet-friends. I can't wait to spend the whole weekend talking, sharing stories and writing.

Photo by Bryan Penberthy

How it All Starts.

This evening, I ventured to the utterly rainy Isle of Palms with my trusty photographer, ready to scout out a spot for our upcoming cover shoot next week. It was a soggy occasion, but we managed to snap a few ideas with the iphone.

And, right before that, I worked on my "About the Cover" page whilst having happy hour at Basil. (They have pretty good happy hour, by the way.)

It's funny to think about how the cover of the magazine gets started - with two women walking in the rain and snapping phone pictures - and how  content evolves from a notebook page scrawled in ink.

It all reminds me of something my favorite poetry professor, Dr. Paul Rice, used to write about. He had this collection of poems I loved that focused about how we can't always trace things back to their beginnings. And, how when we do manage to trace them, the beginnings aren't always recognizable.

Today was rough. I was tired and grouchy for a good portion of it, and I had a lot to do, not all of it fun. But when I take the time to really think about the origins of the magazine I work for (and of all magazines, books and artwork) I feel much more grateful for the process.

A little sunshine would have been nice, though.

On Sharing Verse.

Jack Johnson, a musician that my friends and I listened to incessantly in college, once sang that it's "always more fun to share with everyone."

Yet, I've been wondering lately how much or how little to share regarding my own poetry. As a poet, I get excited when the "inspirational" portion of writing a poem is complete. And, I have a habit of almost immediately sending that poem out to a few of my friends who like poetry. The problem is, I realize later that I need to make changes to the poem. Once the inspirational "high" wears off, I'm a bit disappointed that I've shared the poem in such early stages. It doesn't stop me from doing it again, though.

I have quite a few friends who are professional poets. They're always proclaiming that you should not share poems that aren't already published - thus, the only poems you'll find on my blog are the links to poems that some other venue has deemed worthy of public consumption. But, secretly, I'm dying to post a poem, or at least a few lines, for y'all to read here.

And today I posted a poem in public, as ill-advised as it might be. Remember how I told y'all that my favorite coffee shop, Troubadours in Mount Pleasant, closed down last week? Well, I wrote a poem about it.

Sure enough, I sent it to a few friends in its early stages. But it went through the process. I workshopped it with my poetry-feature-buddy, Alexandra, and she helped me make some edits.

Next thing I knew, Brian and I got coffee this morning at a place we aren't quite on board with - but at least they had Scotch tape - and decided to cruise by our old haunt and plaster the poem to the front door.

Hours later, when my editorial assistant and I were busy distributing magazines and rode back by the building, I saw that my poem was gone.  (Good thing I snapped a photo, right?)

"Where is my poem?" I whined to Taylor.

"It was taken home by an adoring fan," she replied.

But I wasn't ready to buy that.

What if the owner of the entire building snatched it off the door? I asked myself.
What if someone plum didn't like it? 

But, the truth is, no one knows what happened. Heck, like Brian said, it could have just been the faults of the wind and the less-than-stellar tape. I think what mostly bothers me is that the one time I gave my poem to the world without knowing how it would be received, it simply disappeared.

Still, I can't let a little thing like a vanishing poem stop me from heeding my desire to share when necessary. Though I don't post poems on social media, I'm certain that another occasion will move me to this point.

And maybe somewhere tonight, someone is reading my lines, over and over. Maybe they loved that spot just as much as I did.

Maybe they just love poetry.

Celebrations.

Wow, since May has started I've been engulfed in celebrating all kinds of occasions, from my best friend Alice (and soon, Mandie!) moving back to Charleston, to my roommate Dana's completion of graduate school, to the MOST important item -- I won the Forum Prize for the Poetry Society this year!!!

I received a book of W.H. Auden's poetry and essays (donated and signed just for me by the oldest member of our society, who is 101 this year!) plus some prize money. I feel totally proud of myself. And my poet friends all toasted me and congratulated me.

The celebrations don't stop there. This weekend is our annual Girls' Weekend, when my ladies and I all go to my house in Litchfield and enjoy the most valuable friendships we have. I feel certain this year is going to be fantastic.

If only every month could be this chock-full of happiness. But as Brian loves to remind me, then I wouldn't recognize what it means to be happy.

Woo hoo! 

When Opportunity Knocks...or Telephones.

I was sitting at my work desk early this morning when my phone rang. I answered it chirpily, like I always do, wondering if it was Brian on the other end. But it wasn't.

"Hi...This is an odd question, but my son needs help on an English paper for school," said a woman's voice on the other end of the line. "Do you have any ideas about who I should call?"

I sat up in my chair. "Your son needs a tutor?" I asked. "Why did you call Mount Pleasant Magazine if your son needs a tutor?"

"Well, I figured you guys would know someone and he could get help right away," she said. "The paper is due this week."

"You've found your tutor," I announced. We made plans for me to visit her house at 4 p.m.

Damn, I thought. I love it when work just falls into my lap like this! 

It took me a minute to find the address once I found the street. I squinted up at the numerals on the houses, looking inside my email to make sure I had the right place. 

"Are you the magazine editor who's here to help my brother?" asked a little boy who was walking a dog. 

I said that I was. 

He led me inside, where I had one of the easiest adaptations of my life. It felt like I'd known this family forever. The mother, Kristi, is super friendly (plus, we talked about everything from her art - she was painting in the family room - to relationships) and the 6th grade tutee, Mason, is precious. He listened to me explain to him how his paper should be outlined with less squawking than I get from college students. 

"I like to write," he explained sheepishly, as we wrapped up our session. "I just think research papers are sorta boring. But I write poems." 

"Really! You're a poet?" I was surprised. "So am I! We should trade poetry!"

"We should," he agreed. "I would really like that." 

So, as you can probably imagine, I'm completely stoked to go back tomorrow. As you read this blog, I'm trying to figure out which of my poems would make good trading material with an 11-year-old. 

Life's funny. 

Out Loud.

My "tutee," as I call her, the middle-school-girl I teach in the afternoons, has been working on an essay this week about family. It's been an interesting exercise for both of us; she, because she needs writing tips in general, and me, because I can use most of the same lecture I normally give the college students I teach at night. 

One of the most important lessons that she's learned this week is to read everything out loud. Before this, every time she completed a few sentences and a paragraph came to fruition, she would silently hand me the sheet of lined paper, ask me to read it and "see if it was right." 

But I've taught her that reading out loud to me and to her own ears is the best way to evaluate the writing and look for ways to make it better. 

So, over and over this week, she has read her modest paragraphs out loud in the kitchen. I have to smile as her brow furrows and she stumbles over the sentences that aren't as well-crafted. 

"See?" I tell her. "When you read silently, you don't notice the construction of the sentence as much."

The same goes for me with my own work, of course. I read everything out loud if I can, especially poetry. (Though I hate reading it at a microphone to others. Go figure!) I can't remember who first taught me to read things out loud, but I suspect that my mother reading stories to me every day as a child (before I was able to read myself) fostered a love for hearing words against the air. 

I've always considered myself an auditory learner; I recall songs, conversations and anything that I listen to. 

So, tell me your stories. Hearing them is sometimes better than seeing them on a page. 

Poetry: The New Social Lubricant?

Friday night was the annual open mic for the Poetry Society, and I read a poem, despite feeling like I was going to lose my s*it a couple of times while standing in front of everyone.

Afterwards, a few other poetry fans came up to me at the reception and said "good job," which is nice, of course, but nothing unusual.

What was unusual was getting hailed in the street by this couple I didn't know who'd been at the reading. I was on my way to my car, rather dejectedly I might add, because none of my friends wanted to go out. Then I heard two people calling me.

"Hey! We were just at the reading with you. We loved your poem." They caught up to me on the sidewalk. "Want to get coffee and dessert with us?"

I was surprised. It's not often that perfect strangers ask you to join them on an outing.

"Sure," I said. "But I don't drink coffee at this hour so I hope you won't be offended if I order bourbon!"

We went to a nearby restaurant and had a great time discussing that night's reading, our other work, and just socializing. I love meeting other writers.

After that, I headed to Henry's, a bar that I've never particularly loved, in order to hear a friend's band as I promised. On the rooftop deck I struck up a conversation with a couple of guys (none of them were writers) and asked them if they wanted to hear the poem I'd read that night. They did.

"Wow, we've never met a real poet before," they said when I was finished. One guy seemed especially intrigued--enough that he asked for my number, invited me to the next location with them and texted that he'd like to see me again.

You have a thing for poets? I typed in one text.

I'm not creative at all, he typed. I appreciate your vision. 

Although the guy doesn't live here in town and I may not run into him again, it's refreshing and amusing to know that I can impress barflies by reading my poems. I think I've found a new dating--and socializing tactic. I may just carry a poem in my purse from now on.

Poetry Resolutions.

One of my resolutions this year is to get more serious about my poetry. 2012 was a step in the right direction; I was published in Illuminations Magazine, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, plus I got a Pushcart Prize nomination. I also read out loud at the microphone on Mondays more than before, thanks to a little bit of faith in my newer work and some pestering from my pal Jim Lundy, the emcee.

My next move is to be part of Sixfold, a cool new journal in which everything is decided by the writers themselves, not editors.

Click to visit

One of the best parts about Sixfold is that if you submit, other writers read and comment on your work as part of the voting process, and you comment on theirs. I'm interested in reading the work of the other poets who submit. It sounds like a remote workshopping class, and I'm all for it. 

I've already tentatively picked out a few poems for the haul. Wish me luck. It's always a little nerve-racking, sending your work out into the world, but I have to get better at it. I will keep you all posted. 

Uncle Lou.

Friends, this week has been nothing short of crazy-busy. But in the midst of my busyness with deadlines and grading and whatnot, I received some rather astonishing news...I've been nominated, by Illuminations Magazine, for a 2012 Pushcart Prize. I'm as honored and thrilled as you might imagine.

During Thanksgiving last week, my sister and I ventured into our grandmother's attic for the first time in years. When we were younger (and my grandmother was more strict) we always begged to go in the attic, or for someone to, so we could discover the oldies-but-goodies inside. So, when my grandmother okayed it after we all cleared this year's holiday dishes, Marie and I were as thrilled as 12-year-olds.

I crawled around on my knees in that dusty attic for what seemed like an eternity, determined to find something more worthwhile than old curtains. I finally did--a boxful of old letters, photos and mementos. I handed it down the ladder to my mother, who was anxiously awaiting my descent, and everyone crowded around the kitchen table, eager to sift through family history.

It's funny...each of us found something particularly meaningful. For me, it was a letter that my great-uncle, Louis James Essey, wrote in the 1940's to a literary journal. Uncle Lou, who was one of my grandmother's older brothers, has always been one of my heroes. A self-proclaimed bibliophile, he worked as a journalist for the Charlotte Observer, never got married, wrote incessantly and didn't own a television. When I found the letter, yellowed with years and crumbly at the edges, I decided I would keep it. After all, Uncle Lou and I are both writers, and, more specifically, both poets. I brought the letter home to Charleston and it's nestled on my bookshelf.

I'm not certain whether Uncle Lou's poetry was ever published. I know he published countless essays, articles and reviews throughout his life as a writer, but his career as a poet is mysterious to me.

Still, it seems an interesting coincidence that I've now been nominated for the Pushcart. I can't help but wonder if Uncle Lou brought me good luck? Or, for that matter, if luck came from any of the other poets I've been fortunate to know throughout these years? Come to think of it, the nominated poem was inspired by Anna, my dear friend who passed last summer. Every time I write or read poetry, I think of all the poets I've met. Some of them are my personal friends, some have signed my collections...some are just out there, writing.

They make good company.

What's Mysterious About Inspiration? Everything.

Last night my friend Emily visited Charleston and all of us went to Friday night trivia at the Pour House. I proceeded to explain to Em how, this week, I finally wrote a poem that I've been waiting to write for months. Em is not a poet, but I knew she'd find the story behind the inspiration interesting.

A couple of months ago when the weather was still scorching hot, they tore down the original Harbor View Elementary School in my neighborhood. It was a creepy sight for a good few days--bits of building already gone, the parts still there not at all a sufficient reminder of happy elementary-age kids learning how to read and do arithmetic. I was inspired by the building being torn section by section, and the meaning behind it, but try as I might, I could not capture my feeling on paper.

Until the other day, when I visited Facebook and, out of the blue, saw where one of Emily's best drinking buddies just entered a relationship.

We probably won't see as much of that guy anymore, I thought to myself. And if we do, it won't be exactly the same. 

Then...BOOM!!! It was like a thunderbolt of inspiration over my head. I couldn't get the words out of me quickly enough. And the poem that erupted from my head was about Harbor View Elementary! Most peculiar, I thought. How would seeing a new relationship on Facebook cause me to find the inspiration for that poem I'd been dying to write for months?

Inspiration is like that. Now before I start getting a bunch of boos and hisses about the craft of poetry and how the craft is what truly matters (which is not something I'm arguing) I still maintain that the first inkling of a poem, the moment that tickles you enough to make you pull a notebook or computer out, is mysterious. All I can do in preparation for this mystery is be open to it, and not let good lines escape out of laziness or lack of convenience or whatever.

The Harbor View Elementary poem is now one of my personal favorites, and if I had ignored the funny detour my inspiration caused, I would not have it.

My Muse Knows a Mule.

Today I found out that four of my poems will appear in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature this fall! I'm pretty excited. The Dead Mule School is a quirky online literary journal that asks all the authors to submit a "southern legitimacy statement" rather than a regular bio. (Mine talks about saltwater marshes and homegrown tomato sandwiches!)

Visit The Mule

Another cool thing about the Dead Mule School is that they publish everything -- poetry, fiction and essays. I look forward to reading my own work alongside some great prose from other southern writers. 

Life: Another Mini-Story.

Long ago, when I had a MySpace blog (remember that?) I wrote about the night that I bought a vegetable that seemed to be a zucchini, yet ended up being a cucumber when I started dissecting it on the cutting board.

This is a metaphor for life, I wrote at the time. Things are so surprising. 

Well, the other night it happened again. This one was even weirder if you can believe it.

I was at the Poetry Society's final evening of the '11-'12 season. I ventured to the powder room before the show started and the lights were off. It was pitch black in the restroom (which is a single) and I groped for the switch. No dice. The light remained absent.

Ok, I thought to myself, I really have to pee. So I dug out my keys and turned on my little flashlight that dangles from my keychain. The light, although small, was enough for me to tend to my business and wash my hands afterward. I shined it at myself in the mirror.

I look like a ghost. 

I don't know what made me run my hands over the wall again when I was on my way out the door, but I did, and I found yet another switch. There's two? I thought to myself, flipping the other one.

You guessed it--the room flooded with light. The other switch, the first one I'd checked, had been nothing but a fan.

I was embarrassed at my own silliness but also inspired. Life has been pretty strange lately, and I felt like the incident was showing me that, yes, sometimes you have to use the little flashlight to get you through a problem. But the big light will show back up if you search for it.

Illuminations.

I'm pleased to share the good news with y'all that three of my poems are appearing this summer in Illuminations: An International Magazine of Contemporary Writing. The journal is currently published at the College of Charleston, and has been around since 1982. I'm excited and honored to be part of it.

website

Lock In.

It all started when I got up this morning, VERY begrudgingly, since I slept a total of two winks last night. I don't know what it is lately--I guess I have a lot on my mind--but it's just hard to sleep throughout the night. I feel like an infant, but with bills. Ha.

So anyhoo, I'm late for poetry circle and on my way out of the door when I realize..I can't open it. Yep, the door is locked and JAMMED no matter which way i turn the knob or the lock. I try over and over to let myself out of the house, but I feel like I'm just going end up breaking the door knob. Ugh. To make matters worse, the cat is staring at me, wondering what the hell my deal is.

I start to get frantic. The back door of our house leads to a balcony, which I certainly would NOT be jumping off of. Neither of my roommates were home. I was helpless. So I whipped out my phone and called my two poetesses.

"You won't believe this," I moaned. "But I'm stuck INSIDE my house. The lock is jammed or something. Help me!! It's too embarrassing to call the fire department!!"

They said they'd come right over. We had decided that if I could at least open the window, they could help me get the screens off and I could crawl through. But as luck would have it, before they even arrived I managed to get the door open. (Good thing I didn't call the fire department, right?)

"Gosh," said Bridget later as we munched our breakfasts. "I was disappointed that you were able to open the door yourself. I wanted us to rescue you!"

I was touched. I sat there, enjoying the homemade bread Bridget made and the delicious eggs that Ali scrambled, thinking how lucky I am to have friends like them--ready to come to my rescue, no matter how absurd the request.

There are worse ways to start a day.

Pastry Preview.

So this week, it's my turn to bring breakfast to the poetry circle. I decided to go a little overboard (for a weekday) and try making Nutella-banana pastry pockets. I knew they'd be yummy with the fancy coffee that Ali brews.

 As we all know, I've flubbed plenty of (supposedly easy) recipes in the past, and since I'd never made these I wanted to preview the situation this evening. I went to Publix and got some pastry shells. I already had the fruit and Nutella at home.

It was delicious and easy. I sighed with satisfaction when I bit into the first pastry. I only made two for tonight so I gave the other one to my neighbor, Aaron, who is always willing to be my food-guinea-pig.  He agreed that it was a success. I might have to go buy more of these pastry shells. It looks like you can stuff the things with just about anything.

Breakfast of Wordsmiths.

I'm really enjoying my new poetry circle. It's just three of us so far, but we manage to keep things lively and constructive. This morning we talked about some of our favorite "famous" poems before we read our own work. We ate a funny breakfast of fruit, whole grain muffins and chocolate chip cookies. We made plans to do "something cultural" together this weekend.

 I love having poets as friends--they understand when I exclaim over the shadows of trees. They find everything either amusing or tragic. It certainly takes the boredom out of my week.

Poetry-to-Go.

Long, long ago, I used to write poetry down in an actual journal. I'd have an idea, then I'd get out my trusty book and handwrite the poem that sprang into my head. I have tons of poetry journals from my youth, and I still enjoy leafing through them.

But as I've gotten older, I've started (gasp!) composing poems only on screens. It started with my computer screen. These days, instead of a pretty notebook with poems in it, I have a desktop icon. And now it's moved on to phone screen poems! I kid you not. I have probably four or five poems on my phone's "notepad" application as we speak.

I even leave the poems on the phone for a while, to the extent that I'll meet my friend on Thursday morning (we're both poets and we trade) and...hand her my phone. I watch her furrowed brow as she scrolls down the screen of my BlackBerry and I think to myself, This is wrong. A poem should have more organic origins. 

But I can't help it. When a poem hits me now, I reach for the object that my hand is never far from--the phone. I type furiously into the notepad app, then I forget to remove it later. When I do remove it, I transfer it to the poetry desktop folder.

Sigh.

I'm thinking that it's time to start a REAL poetry journal again. There's just something about pen and paper that seems more inspiring.

Do the rest of you write things down on real paper anymore? I'd love to hear your thoughts on this matter!