ugh . . .

. . . day is just not going well. There is a disconnect that I cannot figure out. Somewhere, something is not jiving. Something is missing. I have this feeling it is something right in front of me, but for some reason, I am just not seeing it.

We talked about passive voice in class today. How it lacks authority. (And fragments can be good.) Which makes me wonder how passive I am in life. (All things writerly can be ascribed to life in general, I think; poetry is life.)

Passive is an easy way to be. Non-committal. And who wants commitment during an MFA? It is so much easier to not deal with those sorts of issues. To not have to deal with them. I'm lucky if I can commit to an entire book of poetry these days.

But. . .

I did commit to a wall color. That's worked out pretty good. I commit to reading novels outside my classes. I even finish them. I'm so committed to my pets that I end up spending way more resources (time, money) than I have to give. Somehow it all works out.

And let's face it - all those bumps in the road are worth it. The time with the cats, the birds, the gerbil; the not having to look at white walls; the new stories. . .

Okay. So I am not really a commitment-phobe. So what all is going on here?

(Basically, this is me talking to myself. If you're reading this, and have insight, by all means, let's hear it. Otherwise, you can ignore my drivel and be glad I didn't post the earlier draft of my rant on all things evil about Paula Zahn. Now that was scary. And I may put it up anyway. In the future. If I can commit to it.)