Tomorrow my advanced poetry and novel classes read our work to a collected audience of classmates, professors, agents, and publishers. I’m awake still, and buzzing because I bought raspberry syrup and have been using it to fuel my novel writing. And all I can think about tomorrow, despite the tendrils of curling panic trying to grab hold of my rough edges, is that I haven’t ever worn the shoes I’ve chosen before. I am afraid they will give me blisters. I am afraid I will drink white wine on an empty stomach and my novel reading will come out with the sprawl of drunken laughter.
I regret, now, the prose piece I chose to read. I had two pieces in mind. One was about sex, and the other was about ghosts and boats, and I confess, I took the easy way out. I wish I hadn’t; I wish I was going to stand up and read the better piece, not the safer one. But it will be all right. I love the poem I chose. I think it might be the best thing I’ve written to date. I submitted it to The New Yorker, because I am a chronic over-achiever.
I think I might do a voice recording of that poem, one of these days. Perhaps I’ll post it here? I’ll have to figure out how to do that. Also, how to wear heels, swim laps, cook cupcakes, fight crime. And sleep with sugar in my veins.
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