Edith is recovering well from both being spayed and having her tiny nostrils enlarged. Her surgery forced me to camp out at home this weekend. That's never a bad thing, really. I have never been too interested in astrology, but my sign (cancer) is right on for the most part. Despite my summer trips, I am a complete homebody.
Besides for the entertainment of watching Edith maneuver around the apartment in her plastic cone, I was also given great reading material to engage in during this time. Frank brought me a Christmas present:Heather Derr-Smith's new book; I am only about halfway through and I'm savoring every word. Plus, I am reading a friend of mine's new work. We both graduated last May and he already has a chapbook plus worth of work. If I sent out my new work, it would consist of a handful of poems.
I like to think the words are brewing, but I'm not so sure anymore. I think about poems all of the time. But when will they emerge? I've become somewhat of a perfectionist about first drafts. That's ridiculous. Everything else in my life is so lovely, but I'm waiting on the words to surface. It's like I need a writing therapist.