I haven't put pen to paper in a month. Only three efforts at poetry writing since leaving the MFA program. I exist in this ambivalent state with an aversion to the forced discipline of the program, and a desire to keep a connection. So I read. Buy books and stack them according to preference. I have 29 books waiting.
Most of these are poetry. A few books on poetics and one or two nonfiction.
I wonder what my compatriots are dong, if they are immersed in literature of one genre or another. If they write. Or read. Or if they have fallen away, happy to be relieved of the requirements.
Mostly I wonder what comes next. I conjure up book ideas: a collection written in a heteronym's identity; a remix of my final manuscript. I ponder the idea of creating yet another ezine. Vaguely, I recall my desire to enter the spoken word arena, to create one where I live.
But the compulsion to be creative is slipping. Or is in abeyance.I call it the equal but opposite reaction and wait.