I am at heart an essayist. Figuring this out was the most significant part of my MFA training. All I can say is, that at some point, things just clicked. I felt confident writing essays, less so writing poetry. The groundwork had been laid by the poets who had preceded me, and I didn’t have the wherewithal to forge new ground.

I might have made my mark as a Tier II poet, by following in the footsteps of other poets. But I was even at a loss with this. Forms eluded me – I could not write, say, a sestina, to save my life. I had no sense of rhyme or meter – all I could do was tell a good story. I was, in this respect, just a one trick pony.

I did venture into the realm of prose poetry. My teacher at the time read a short essay that I wrote and said I should write prose poems. So, I trusted her judgement and wrote prose poems. I eventually hit a dead end in writing these short paragraphs, perhaps because what I wrote also qualified as flash fiction and fables.

I resumed writing essays. I took to this path because I enjoyed the scenery. The formless nature of the essay complemented the way I think. I am an inductive writer and figure out things as I’m going along. I am not talking here about the academic essay, but rather, about the personal essay. I can’t get in the zone while working on a poem in which the form complements the content. This, to me, is like rubbing my head and patting my stomach.

The problem for the essayist is that the material that one writes about comes from their life experiences. And so, right now, here I am, dealing with over abundance and stressed out because I have no time to write about the day-to-day events that in time will be the framework for my book. I also have sought, but not struck, a balance between my home life and hotel life. This, now that I think of it, will end up moving to the forefront of Shelf Life.

I used to pride myself on having few attachments, work related or otherwise. Now I am tied down big time, to a job that does not pay but has a lot of responsibility.

I have yet to make my mark in this form, but right now my subconscious is doing the work. I need time, sustained time, in order to finish Shelf Life. It will, when done, be a series of interconnected essays, ones in which I write about over abundance, using the book market as an example. I am going to have to incorporate research findings into this. But first, I must get the entire story on paper.

Dispatches are for me, tips of icebergs. They are providing me with an indication of what lurks below the surface. Once an essayist, always an essayist.

Next: 336. 12/10/24: Another Life Lesson Learned