Word pusher

Man, a couple days in the high 80's and I'm shaking in my boots.  Today's respite, 81, isn't as many degrees above normal.  Scary.  Too soon.

I'm having a revelation.  All these years in science classes, doing good work but never speaking up in class, unsure of myself, intimidated, self conscious -- now, here I am in a lit class and a poetry workshop, excited, speaking up all the time, intensely boring into things and sharing my perspective.  No, it's not just that I'm older.  I've taken science classes recently, and it's the same as always.  I am now where I might well have belonged all this time.

Here's a thought -- with all the writing I've done and even published a few short stories, I've never taken a creative writing course until now.  Maybe, along with poetry, I should take a few workshops in prose writing, see what that opens up.  That might improve as well.  I can see me spending the next couple of decades pushing words around all over the place.

This semester the poems I'm writing are more autobiographical, more personal, and have me frowning and digging to pull up more truths than are obvious, to make more connections.  The poems are longer.  The process is less fun but more satisfying.  I must be getting closer.  I feel stronger.