Polishing, polishing, polishing. Revision’s the thing. The best part of writing poetry, too. But what happens when you put your little children on the big yellow bus?
It’s tough, let me tell you, watching ten new poems–your babies, noses pressed to the window–as the bus pulls away.
The schools are far away. The poems will be gone for many months. Half a year or more. Heck. They may grow an inch or so while they’re absent. And it’s no mail home allowed. No calls. No texts or e-mails.
As the saying goes: Absence makes the heart get to work. None of this growing fonder stuff. Whip cracking. New brood. And fast. Before the hollow feeling takes root.
No writer should grow overly attached to his writing. What if they come back rejected–kicked out of school?
What if. You’ll be busy if and when that day comes. Waving a new bunch off, fondly but not sentimentally.
A bit cold-hearted, this marketing bit. Part of the game. Your personal public education, so to speak. The yellow bus of marketing that leaves you in its exhaust.
Turn your back, live your gathering life, read, and write.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.