Good writing is intimate. Anne Lamott taught me that. When I read something written high aloft and far away from itself, I lose interest. Beware: this Journal of Failure is close in on its subject.
This is not my first blog by a far stretch. The term ‘blog’ was coined sometime in the late 90’s – and that’s around when I started my first one. Yes, I am old enough. Several of them have been ‘disappeared’ from the interwebs (thank you internet deities!) and that is for the best. A few I can still access, and one of them is where I published poetry over the course of a couple years. I regained access to it just a few days ago, and some of it is not too terrible – even, dare I say, maybe even a little bit good? It’s not so much that I think it’s Objectively Good, it’s that I think most of it is honest. Yes, it’s mostly very very clearly-obviously-undisputably modeled after e.e. cummings, but who better to imitate than the Best? See also: Oscar Wilde
What happened was, I had challenged my friend to a Poetry Challenge. We Challenged a couple of times. Over time and the course of poetry the friend became significant other. How literary! We courted by poetry.
I published it as we went so I could keep track and to encourage other people to join us and try. People are afraid to expose their less-than-perfect art to the world. But less-than-perfect art is all there is. Really. So make yours.