Writing? What Writing?

I can say the same about running. I was doing pretty well for a while there, waking at 5 a.m. when A. went to work, writing/revising/or at least thinking for and hour and a half, and then running on the treadmill in our basement for forty minutes or so . . . and then it's like a switch was flipped and I haven't really followed that pattern for the past week. Some mornings I've awakened at 5 a.m. only to do something other than writing, which has demanded (as tasks do) to carry over into running time, so that neither writing nor running is done that day. And then other mornings, I sleep. This morning I slept.

Apparently, I need sleep. I keep trying to convince myself that I don't, but hey, I'm getting old, and I think it's time to face the facts that old people need sleep. Or rather, maybe this is the precipice before I fall into true oldness, where I'll need sleep in the middle of the day because I can't fall back asleep at night.

This week is the week of the SCCC Creative Writing Festival. It's a relief for the week to finally be here, and anticlimactic in some ways because of all the ridiculous drama that's run like a current through the preparation, and yet I'm still one cup of coffee away from a good old-fashioned panic attack, I think, because I want everything to run smoothly.

Or rather, I want everything that I'm in charge of to go smoothly. I'm not so much of a control freak that I feel as though I'm responsible for every aspect of the festival -- and if our readers for Saturday or the workshop presenters don't show up, or even if students don't show up, I'll be sane, even if I'm disappointed. I have no control over that. But if we get to some part of the week where I'm running the show -- like today's reading at 12:30 p.m. with two of my accomplished, published, lovely fellow alum from NYU, Josh Goldfaden and Ruth Irupe Sanabria -- and some major setback occurs, I might just freeze up with one of those oh-my-god-I'm-gonna-die-right-now heart attacks that aren't really heart attacks but your body telling you it's had quite enough of your freaking-fucking-bat-shit-crazy mind.

Yesterday we began the festival with a faculty reading. Too many readers were scheduled and, as the last readers, A.P. and I had very little time read our work. I had this whole little mini-talk planned about the sabbatical and how it related to the poems I was reading and I was kind of excited to do it because I thought it was a really good way to show our students what we do outside of teaching class and grading (did I say grading? I am so behind in grading . . .) and then I had to do this miserable truncated version which I messed up a little bit EVEN THOUGH I WAS READING A SCRIPT 'cause that's the kind of fuck-up I am.

Oh well.

Hopefully my next chance to read will be better. I'm going to read as part of a Hyacinth Girl Press event in Pittsburgh at the end of May, about which I'm pretty excited. I love traveling. I like visiting new places, and I've never been to Pittsburgh. And being a part of the press is cool, too.

So. Once more into the fray  . . . the boy is up and demanding all sorts of things. Cough medicine. A blanket. A banana. Juice. He's like an 80 year old man.

If I survive this week with my remaining brain cells still intact, I'll blog more (and maybe more interesting stuff?) later.


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