where I have been, where I am going

I am not sure I got the rhythm of this past week right, but I tried.  There was a lot of just plain work to do—finishing magazine projects for one client while settling in on a commemorative book for another.  That book project memorializes a place and time.  It means something to the people who have asked me to create it, and so it means an enormous amount to me.  If I have, then, in some ways, gone missing as a writer this week, I have been listening to the stories of others, of men, mostly, who may not think of themselves as poets at all, but who have earned my deep respect for the genuine nature of their talk, their reverence for machines.

And so today, I continued work on that commemorative book project and then switched gears—reading the manuscripts that I'll be workshopping at Rutgers-Camden this coming Wednesday.  The three stories that were sent to me could not be more different from each other, but they are remarkable, each in their own way.  I'm building a workshop around the critique pieces.  I have an idea and, after I teach that class, I plan to share it here.

Clients and workshops.  Lectures and readings.  The fragments of this life all here, on this glass-topped desk, waiting for me.  In between, my son calls with stories, my friends send notes (and post kind Facebook things), my father stops by, I eat a crisp, locally grown Stayman apple, I slip a quiche into the oven.

This is a simple life that I lead.  I would trade it for no other.