Category: Megalomania

Sorry, That’s Not My Problem–Religious Edition

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Earlier this month I had a patron complain that we held a Meet the Candidates event for the mayoral candidates on Ash Wednesday, and with all due respect (and the respect due him was none because he opted to be a jackass in his complaint), that’s not my problem. Your religious observances are none of my concern.

Your religion is not my problem.

I feel like of all of the public-related things that are not my problem, this is the hardest one for people to fathom. Let me assure you that I respect the existence of your religion, I respect your right to your religion, I respect the requirements, restrictions, and obligations placed upon you by your religion. HOWEVER. Those requirements, restrictions, and obligations are not my problem. They do not apply to me. I am not of your religion.

For example, Judaism, Islam, and some Christian denominations prohibit the eating of pork. I respect that. I would never insist or trick those people into eating pork, and if I were feeding them, I would be mindful that whatever meal I was serving was either pork-free or had pork-free options. However, I’m still gonna eat me some pig. That restriction doesn’t apply to me. I do not belong to any of these faiths.

Like my complainer above. Ash Wednesday is his responsibility, not mine, and not the library’s.

I think it’s the Christians that tend to struggle with this concept the most. Capitalism co-opted a couple of their holidays (Christmas and Easter) to make some bank and now they have it in their heads that their religion should be exclusively catered to. Being the most popular religion in the US doesn’t help their egos, either. If anything, it only encourages them to scream persecution if they don’t get their way.

I’m not persecuting them. I’m not discriminating against them. I’m just not one of them. Their religion is not my problem.

But it seems to be the Christians that work the hardest to make their religion my problem. The “this is a Christian nation” crowd. The “bring back prayer in schools” crowd. The “my religion is the only religion and my god is the only god” crowd. They are fascinating in their disrespect as they swing Bible verses like cudgels to defend their own abhorrent behavior while claiming to love everyone in the name of Jesus. The expect everyone to honor their religion while dismissing and denigrating anyone else’s -or their lack thereof.

It’s just happenstance that Christianity became a major religion. In another timeline, they’d all be beating their Quarans instead of their Bibles, quoting the Islamic prophets instead of the Christian ones. “No, we wouldn’t!” Oh, but, you would. For those people, religion isn’t about faith or spirituality; it’s about power. It’s about their ability to control other people.

That’s the problem we have now. People using their God as justification for control. “The Bible says…” The Bible says a lot of things. The Bible says a lot of contradictory things. The Bible says a lot of things that they ignore for their own convenience (helping the poor, plucking your eyes out, do unto others, false idols, etc.). Ultimately, the Bible says a lot of things that ain’t got shit to do with me because I’m not a Christian. That’s not my handbook.

Your religion isn’t my problem.

Stop trying to make it one.

“Your Hair Is So Cute!”

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Help me figure something out here.

Recently, I’ve been getting frequent compliments on my hair. Usually, it’s when I’m at work and the compliments generally come from older women (and by older women, I mean older than me). The exchange is typically along the lines of:

“Your hair so so cute!”

“Thanks!”

“I never know what to ask for when I go to the salon.”

“I cut my own hair.”

“Really? It’s so cute!”

I have had a version of this conversation multiple times over the last few months and I am truly baffled by it. Not that people think my hair is cute because obviously it is. But the frequency with which I’ve been having these very similar conversations with different women is curious.

I’ve had my hair like this for at least a couple of years now (maybe, I dunno, I’m too lazy to really figure it out), and have had occasional compliments on its cuteness, but it’s really picked up lately, and I don’t know why. I haven’t done anything different with it. Sure, my cutting technique has refined and evolved over time and as a result my hairstyle has changed a little, too, but not that much. Certainly not enough to garner an influx of praise, especially recently. I’ve actually fucked it up more in the last few months than I have gotten it right, as it were. Too many times when I cut it lately, I was in a hurry and/or wasn’t mindful about what I was doing.

I have one theory as to what has caused the uptick of compliments and similar conversations, and it is a wild one.

I think it’s because I haven’t colored my hair in months.

I’ve colored my hair a couple of times since I got it cut, but lately I’ve been too lazy and not bored enough to bother. Life has been too demanding as of late for me to want to commit to the upkeep of coloring my hair even if I was in the mood. So, it’s back to my natural medium brown with the coppery tinges and the sparkles of silver. Except I’ve noticed that there’s a lot more of that sparkle than there used to be. A lot more. Thanks aging and stress!

Most of the time I don’t think about how my silver hair is viewed by others. When it comes to my hair, I think of it more as a whole entity, as in “Does my hair look like shit?” I don’t think of how the new abundance of silver might be perceived. It catches my eye in the mirror sometimes, but it doesn’t always show up that well in selfies, so I guess I figured that most people don’t notice it.

But maybe they do. And maybe it just so happens that the silver is what this haircut needs to really shine.

So what do you think? Am I on to something here?

Or am I just looking for meaning where there’s nothing more than a pattern I happen to be noticing?

After all. It’s just hair.

Aging, But Not Gracefully Because I’m Not Graceful

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I don’t mind the idea of getting old. I’m not the kind of person who turns twenty-nine year after year. I have no trouble admitting my age because I earned every one of those years.

I admit that part of that is because I look good for my age.

In a youth-obsessed culture like ours, holding on to every shred of youngness is encouraged, in particular for women or femme-presenting folks. People start getting Botox in their twenties just to fend off the thought of a line or wrinkle. Skin treatments, facials, retinols, creams, special diets, plastic surgeries -all in the name of forever looking twenty-five.

I, personally, don’t want to look twenty-five. I don’t think I’ve ever looked twenty-five, even when I was twenty-five. When I was young, I always looked older than my age. Part of the reason I was cast as Mother Goose in my theater class’s final was because I was the only 18 year old who looked like she’d already had eight kids. The benefit to always looking older than you are is that your age eventually catches up to your face and then your face stays the same as the years continue to accumulate.

I call it Robert Stack Syndrome. The man looked the same age for 50 years. He is proof that this can be a blessing.

In my own version of this syndrome, I looked 42 forever and then I hit 42 and now I’m past 42 and people can’t believe I’m older than 42. I credit my genes for this. They provided me some insulation from being an 80s baby and also smoking for ten years. My grandma says my skin looks so good because I always drank a lot of water, even when I was a kid.

I also developed a decent skin care routine at some point in my early thirties that I think has done wonders. No, I’m not immune to that particular vanity, but I also think it’s important to take care of your skin. After all, it’s an organ covering your entire body. You should be good to it. A good cleanser, a moisturizer, and sunscreen, and you’re good to go.

Of course, my skincare regime isn’t that simple anymore. I’ve added an eye cream and a retinol and some sort of acid serum instead of exfoliating and a daily lip mask and a weekly sheet mask and dermaplaning. Okay, it sounds like a lot, but you’ll just have to trust me that I don’t have a lot of money or time invested in this routine. For me, I consider it all acts of self-care to keep my skin looking good.

Notice I said good, not young.

I want to continue to look good for my age. And I think that I do. No one’s going to card me buying tequila (just question my life choices), but even with the sparkles of silver streaking my hair, nobody’s going to be offering me up a senior discount either (I’d take it if they did, though).

However, I’ve recently been challenged with what looking good for my age means. I’ve started to develop the saggy, crepe skin underneath my chin and along my neck. You know what I’m talking about. That delicate wattle that some folks get. That I’m apparently getting.

And I’m not sure I’m okay with that.

Considering I’ve been researching ways to minimize or eliminate this development, I’d say that I’m not really that okay with it. I can handle the lines and I’ve learned to cope with a couple of the dark spots, but this? This is an old age marker I’m not ready for.

Between trying new neck tightening techniques and looking into creams that might help, I’d say that my willingness to age gracefully has its limits.

Probably because I’m actually not that graceful.

The Importance of Being Mindful (If You Don’t Want to Fuck Up Your Haircut)

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

I started cutting my own hair a couple of years ago. It took a few cuts for me to get into a comfortable groove. I use clippers on the back and the sides every other week and I take scissors to the top every month. I’ve got three different guards that I use when I’m shaving my head. I use a 1 inch guard for most of it, a 7/8 inch for the nape (otherwise it grows too fast and I got a mullet situation on my hands, and I am not currently of the mullet vibe), and a 1/16 inch to clean up my neck. I start with the 7/8 inch, go to the 1 inch, go back to the 7/8 inch to clean up the transition, and finish with the 1/16 inch. A little scissor action around the ears and I’m done.

I know. You’re asking yourself, “What the hell does all this have to do with mindfulness?” We’re getting there. Be patient.

My point is that I’ve pretty much got it down to a science now. I’ve done it enough times that I know the rhythm by heart.

So, the last time I cut my hair, I clipped on the 7/8 inch guard first thing…and promptly shaved up the side of my head. Oops.

The reason I did this? I wasn’t being mindful. (See? I tied it all together.)

For me, mindfulness is being present in the moment. I have a terrible habit of putting myself on autopilot because my brain decides to concern itself with the future. My body is running on routine while I’m thinking about all of the things I need to do that day, that week, that month. This leads to unfortunate incidents.

Lack of mindfulness is what leads me to take the usual route to work rather than swinging by the post office first like I wanted to.

Lack of mindfulness is why I forget to wash the conditioner out of my hair.

Lack of mindfulness is why I screw up my yoga routine.

Lack of mindfulness is why I forget to put my earrings in (and I am naked without my earrings, thank you).

Lack of mindfulness is why I shave my head with the wrong length guard on the clippers.

When I catch myself slipping like this, my mind focused more on the future than the present, I ask myself where I am. The answer, of course, is that I’m here. In this moment. And that’s where I need my focus to be. I will go so far as to narrate what I’m doing to put myself in the present. Is that weird? Well, I’m weird. Some days, I need that extra step because my brain is stuck on time travel.

I’m not saying that I can’t think about my to do list for the day or the week or the month. I will think about it multiple times a day just to keep myself on track. But I can’t multitask being present and thinking about the future at the same time. It’s one or the other and I need to spend more time on the former than the latter.

For the record, I didn’t ruin my hair. There’s only an 1/8 of an inch difference between what I accidentally did and what I normally do, so it’s just a little bit shorter. I was lucky this time.

It could have been down to the skin.

I Didn’t Grow Out of Being Weird

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

I was a weird kid.

Hardly a revolutionary statement since most kids are weird. They arrive into the world with no context for anything going on and they tend to make shit up as they go along until they’re either educated or ridiculed into some kind of normal. The teenage years definitely inflict a certain conformity, otherwise they will be the most miserable years of existence until the escape into adulthood. Anything outside the strict rules of the adolescent society is game for all sorts of bullying.

I was a weird kid that had an imagination too big for my britches, who indulged in being weird because it made people laugh or skitter away, who found a way to stay weird throughout my adolescent years without too much damage. I’d do things like tell myself stories out loud while I played Tetris. I’d spend a whole day talking in an accent just because (my mother hated it). I’d play with bees, catching them and letting them go until I finally got stung. And then I went to the park to ride my bike with a swollen hand because it turned out that I was allergic.

As a teen my outward weirdness was confined to my interests, which were way out of fashion from everyone else’s. My uncoolness masked much of my weirdness, and my reputation as someone not to cross protected me from any serious harassment.

I went into my legally adult years still weird and indulged in it -dying my hair various colors long before it was accepted and wearing elaborate, brightly colored make-up and rocking pro-wrestling t-shirts over prom dresses. My weirdness retreated from the public eye once again by my mid-twenties, again only coming out in my interests. Even adults are allowed their weirdo interests without much question. But at home, alone or with my closest friends and family, I was weird.

And now I’m middle aged and still weird.

I have yet to mature out of my weirdness. Probably because I have yet to mature to an acceptable degree.

I still tell myself stories out loud.

I still talk to myself in various accents.

I still make up songs on the spot that narrates what I’m doing (my “Scoopin’ the Poops” song while cleaning the litter boxes is an absolute banger).

I still make up songs for my cats (they hate this).

I still have an imagination too big for my britches.

There are times when I think I might be too weird to be loved. I’ll catch myself calling squirrels to the backyard to feed them peanuts and I’ll be talking to them in a funny voice and I’ll realize I’m still in my pajamas and my house shoes and I’ll think, this is probably why it’s best that I’m single. It’s a lot to ask someone to put up with that. I’m lucky I have friends.

I don’t mind being weird. I know it’s off-putting to a lot of people, but I enjoy it. It’s natural. It’s authentic. I don’t have the energy to restrain it anymore, not at my advanced age. I’m afraid everyone is going to have to learn to live with it. I’m already amassing a squirrel army. It’s only going to get worse.

Good luck.

Turning 45

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Okay, so I turned 45 a few days ago and I’m a bit behind on my birthday post. Mind your business.

Last year, I said that 44 sounded bouncy and fun because double numbers are bouncy and fun. I can’t say that it was necessarily bouncy, but it did have its fun moments. I think mostly, though, I managed to find a certain calm, gooey center of my being for a big part of 44. I attained a certain level of peace that I hadn’t had in a while.

Then everything tanked like a baseball team trying to get first pick in the draft.

45 is a serious number. It just sounds serious. It can be considered a milestone age for some folks. It’s the peak before the downward slope to 50. Fitting that it sounds serious considering that I’ll be spending a not insignificant amount of time dealing with serious business.

But I don’t want the whole age to be serious. That sounds like a drag. However, 45 sounds like a great age to get serious about some of my goals. I spent 44 working on some baby steps for The Remarkable Life Plan and I’ve made some progress. It’s funny how there were some baby steps I intentionally wrote down and actively worked on and there were some that just happened. I’d like to make some more of that magic during 45. So, I need to get serious about it.

I know it’s not going to be easy. The difficulty level of my life has been turned up a little bit. Which is why it’s a good thing that 45 is a serious number. Getting serious about my goals is going to take some serious effort.

I rediscovered my fondness for poetry last year and made a point of working on it. I think my poetry is another thing I’m going to spend 45 getting serious about. It was a bright spot during the hardest last few months of 2024 and 44. I want it to continue to be a bright spot during 45. Will anything come of it? Probably not. It’s looking less and less likely the older I get that I will have any sort of a significant writing career. I just don’t have what it takes. But that doesn’t mean I have to stop writing and finding joy in it.

I realize at this advanced age, so close to 50, I should feel more disappointed about where I am in my life and how much I’ve failed to accomplish and become. I should have more regrets and laments. But I just don’t. I can’t find the energy for it. I’m not doing life right at all, but I am doing it. I’m giving myself credit for that.

I think 45 is going to live up to the serious vibe, but I think I’m going to make the best of it and be serious right back.

And I’ll sneak in a little fun when I can.

Finding the 2025 Vibe

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

I’m not starting this new year off like I’ve started off most new years in the past. I don’t have a plan or any goals or even a vibe that I want to achieve. Hell, I didn’t even have my planner for the year organized and ready to go until the last minute. I’m not sure what I want to do with 2025.

I’m carrying the grief of Carrie’s unexpected death with me into the new year. It’s obviously going to take time for me to heal and adjust to this new normal of not having her around. It’s understandable that this re-calibration of my existence would throw me off.

My father has also been dealing with health challenges (and that’s all I care to say about that for now) since October. A man who never gets sick suddenly having a schedule full of doctor’s appointments is enough to throw anyone off their game. And I’m way off mine.

In fact, I’m starting 2025 without any idea where my game even is.

As much as I don’t want to wade hips deep in my grief and loss for a prolonged period of time, sifting and sorting through the physical remains of Carrie’s life is going to take time. It’s going to take months. I know because I’ve been doing it in the month since she died and I’ve realized that even if I had more time to devote to this task, I’d still only be emotionally able to do it little by little.

As much as I’m not qualified to be responsible for someone’s health -hell, I’m not even responsible for mine- I’ll be helping my dad manage his.

These are things that I will do and deal with, but I don’t want them to be the year’s vibe, you know? The vibe is the undercurrent that carries you through. It’s the energy that gets you through the day and the week and the month and the year. It’s the pizzazz, the sparkle, the shine. It’s the foundation you build the year on. I need my foundation to be a little less depressing and tired. I’m going to need something jaunty to get me through this.

I just don’t know what that vibe is. I don’t know what rhythm is going to best suit what I’m doing this year. Because I’m doing so many hard things right now and I don’t want the hard things to be the vibe. But I don’t know what the vibe is. It’s a little scary going into a new year not knowing the vibe. It feels like I’m unprepared. After everything, I cannot afford to be unprepared. Unprepared is not the vibe. At least I know that.

I think the vibe is going to have to find me this year. I don’t think I’ll be able to establish it or choose it on my own. I think I’m going to trip over it or back into it while I’m not paying attention.

Or maybe this can be my mid-life crisis year. I think I’ve earned one.

Maybe that can be the vibe.

It’s Not Easy Socializing with a Brain Like Mine

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Lately, I’ve been flirting with the idea of being more social. It’s a challenge for my introverted self. It takes energy that I don’t always have or want to expend. I’ve neglected that part of my life for too long and I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to leave my house more. It doesn’t have to be anything much. Once a month, go out with a friend, maybe for lunch or dinner or something. Socialize with someone outside of my house and the library. I need to make more of an effort to connect with the friends I have in my meatspace and this would be an easy, low pressure way to do that.

Right?

Well, my brain hasn’t met a good idea that it couldn’t turn bad. Or at least make seem impossible. Anxiety is fun like that.

The friends that currently occupy my immediate physical reality took a different path in life than I did. They got married, had kids, have full-time jobs in which they’ve been employed for years. You know. They all became functioning adults. Meanwhile, I’m over here avoiding adulthood like I’m dodging bullets in the Matrix. My point is that their lives are already very full. They’ve got a lot going on. Better things to do, as it were. My brain gleefully informs me that I do not need to be bothering these friends. They put effort into their lives. They’ve got their social circles. There’s no room for you anymore.

I do have some friends that didn’t entirely go the full-tilt adult route, didn’t get married and/or have kids. They would theoretically have more available time in their life to spend an hour eating food, drinking drinks, and talking about things and stuff with me. However, I still can’t find a way to justify that I’m not bothering them by asking them to hang out with me for a short while. I can’t imagine it being anything other than an inconvenience to them for me to ask, especially if they have to make an excuse because they don’t want to go.

My brain enjoys telling me that everybody hates me and I should go eat worms.

My brain also enjoys projection. My first reaction to someone asking me to socialize is usually a reflexive “no”. It’s too much work to get in the right brain space, I’ll be too anxious. Even if my immediate reaction is a “yes” or a “maybe”, I more than likely won’t feel the same way when the time comes to leave the house. Most often, if I commit to an outing, I will follow through because I know I’ll be fine (or close enough to fine) when I get there. It takes an incredible amount of mental gymnastics sometimes just to convince myself to go out. Why wouldn’t other people go through the same thing when I ask them?

Well, maybe because they have normal, more reasonable brains.

I’m not giving up on this idea that I can have a small social life. After all, I used to have one. It’s just a matter of ignoring the worst of my brain and sending that first text message.

It’ll be fine when I get there.

I’m Reacquainting Myself with the Sun

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Since it’s almost the end of meteorological summer, I think I should talk about something I started doing at the beginning of it.

I’ve never had the best relationship with the sun. Probably because I’m pale and that fiery orb finds it offensive.

My parents and my sister all tan. My mother was a professional tanner in our youth, laying out in the backyard, listening to Cubs games on the radio in the summer and keeping regular tanning bed appointments in the other seasons. My father sported a lop-sided farmer’s tan from driving around on patrol for twelve hours a day with his left arm hanging out the window, the skin that arm getting darker than on the right, dark enough to make my mother jealous. My sister is the kind of person who might get a sunburn and it might last for a day or two, but it would eventually fade into a tan. And once she tanned, well, the chances of her getting another sunburn that summer plummeted.

Me? I go from white to red to white with no other stops on the color wheel. And I didn’t just sunburn as a kid. I burnt. It took no time for me to go from a little pink to deep red to blistered. Growing up, my mom would apply the sunscreen, but it was in the reapplications (infrequent and ill-timed) that I would end up toast. My sunscreen skills didn’t really improve as I got older either. It was a hassle. So, instead of exposing myself to the sun, I gradually retreated from it.

The results were predictable. Sure, I haven’t had a sunburn in years, but I’ve also achieved a paleness not even seen on a sickly Victorian child, which at one point was exacerbated by a bout of anemia. It’s not a pristine, delicate paleness, either. I didn’t get out of those childhood sunburns without a few battle scars. A whole lot of them actually. I’m covered in freckles. It’s the only melanin I have.

Over the years, I’ve attempted to get more sun. However, those attempts were often thwarted by my own laziness and hang-ups. I told myself that I couldn’t go outside on the days I worked because I had to work. I could go outside after work on Saturdays, but I’d sit in the very shaded backyard and not get much sun exposure. I could lay out all day on Friday or Sunday if I wanted to, but it seemed like I could never get out of the house early enough to catch the good sun. It was halfhearted and hopeless.

Then, this past spring, I revamped my morning routine and suddenly everything became possible.

I had noticed that when I took my laptop out in the backyard to write on occasional Saturdays after work or sometimes on my Fridays off, I seemed to be more productive. Why couldn’t I do that every day? I have a perfectly good patio table on a perfectly serviceable patio. I could sit at the table in the mornings, drink my coffee, write, AND get the sun I felt myself craving. Could it be that easy?

Friends, it has been that easy.

Not only do I write more and write it easier when I’m outside soaking up the sun, but I’ve also been getting on better terms with that harsh god. Our relationship has definitely improved with reasonable boundaries. I’m liberal with the sunscreen before going outside, I’m only sitting out there for about 30-45 minutes, and I’m not out there every day. I’m either actively taking a break from the sun or it’s too hot for me to realistically sit outside in direct sunlight in a black chair at a black table. I can only tolerate so much direct exposure and boob sweat.

Spending time outside this summer -as structured yet irregular as it has been thanks to heat waves- has boosted my mood, my creativity, and I’m a healthy shade of pale. In fact, I’m enjoying my mornings of sun, coffee, and writing so much that I don’t plan to give them up so easily come autumn. Or winter, for that matter. I live in the Midwest. Random warm winter days won’t go wasted.

After all, if I’m going to keep this relationship between me and the sun healthy, I’m going to have to work at it.

I Got a Bright Idea

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been pondering the notion of self-publishing chapbooks or collections of my poetry. It would be easy to do since I already have plenty of experience self-publishing novels and novellas and short story collections. I know how to put a book together and I’ve made plenty of my own covers. I could do a print and an ebook version. No problem. Yeah, I’d have to do some research on the the difference between a poetry chapbook and a poetry collection and which would be the one to do. And, yeah, my poetry isn’t great and not really worthy of either of those incarnations. But that doesn’t matter. It’s a bright idea.

That’s the thing about me. I get a lot of bright ideas. Ideas that would probably be brilliant if they were executed by others. Ideas that fall significantly short of expectations because they are executed by me. It turns out that I am the lethal injection of bright ideas.

The problem with me and my bright ideas is two-fold: Once I get an idea I want it done yesterday; and I do not have what it takes to make my bright idea successful.

See, I have a very Field of Dreams attitude towards my bright ideas. If I build it, they will come. Only they don’t. Because I didn’t build it so great. And I don’t really have that kind of draw anyway.

I’ll give you an example. Patreon.

I got the bright idea to make a Patreon. I thought I knew what I was doing, thought I knew how I was going to do it, and went ahead and did it. I was just sure that I was going to attract patrons in no time at all. With what? I don’t know. My charm, I guess. Must have forgot that I have less of that than I have talent. I digress. The first incarnation of my Patreon was a disaster because I really didn’t develop my idea much past the initial sparkle. The second version –The Murderville novellas- was better because I actually had a plan in place and was able to execute it. It took a lot more work than the first version. Imagine that.

The current version of my Patreon, with the four tiers and multiple projects, is probably the best version of my bright idea. And it only took me more years than I wish to count. However, it’s still not the Iowa cornfield ballpark I was hoping for because a) I don’t put out nearly enough free content to attract potential patrons and b) it’s MY content. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my years of writing is that I do not write what people want to read. Sure, my self-promotion game also isn’t the greatest (I feel like I’m annoying people), but if what I was promoting was even slightly appealing, I think it would make up for it.

This isn’t to say that I don’t appreciate the people who have become patrons. Yes, I question their decision-making skills, but I’m also grateful that they choose to continue to invest in my work. Knowing I have this little, core audience keeps my ego inflated. I’m just saying that I have a way of dimming my bright ideas so they don’t quite shine like they should.

I’ve done it with self-publishing, traditional publishing, podcasting, self-employment, .you name it. My creative endeavor bright ideas suffer in my hands. I don’t plan and construct them correctly because I’m in a hurry to get to that gain -money, attention, applause, advancement, whatever. I want the result. And the result is too often disappointing.

So for now, my bright idea of self-publishing my poetry will remain just that. A bright idea.