I might be the only poet who listens to Drake and practices the beloved art of twerking in the mirror while packing bandeau dresses and three-inch heels for a writing conference.
I’ve packed heels in my “spare” bag. Not one pair, but four. And not because they are necessary or even relevant to all that I’ll be consuming over the next 10 days but because without them I feel somewhat vulnerable. I figure at the very least if the Conference determines I’m useless in the poetic space and talentless at best, then dammit, I’ll be wearing some fierce heels when they say so.
I’ve packed three times. Packing and repacking simply to keep busy. Tomorrow I start the 8.5 hour drive promptly at 5 am. Every hour I’ve decided to record one piece of poetic inspiration that will serve as a writing prompt while in Vermont. I’ve been warned by my peers that time is not my own and “spare time” to write is rare and somewhat unrealistic. I’ve been warned that I should pace myself. I’ve been warned I may cry at some point. I have my creative crutches and dear poet-y friends on standby.
I’m thankful for this time. And for that dear man-friend of mine who is so selfless in his sacrifices and his love, I’m thankful for him too.
Off we go…