Faith-is the Pierless Bridge
Supporting what We see
Unto the Scene that We do not-
Too slender for the eye
It bears the Soul as bold
As it were rocked in Steel
With Arms of Steel at either side-
It joins-behind the Veil
To what, could We presume
The Bridge would cease to be
To Our far, vacillating Feet
A first Necessity.

Emily Dickinson

I sometimes find Neil Gaiman’s Journal difficult to read, not because he’s a bad writer, but because he answers many questions from fans in which I have no interest. I think it’s great that he is so forthcoming to his fans, I just have little use for the minutiae that other people adore. Also, most of the events and signings he attends are nowhere near me. However, it is gems like this that keep him in my daily reads.

It does help, to be a writer, to have the sort of crazed ego that doesn’t allow for failure. The best reaction to a rejection slip is a sort of wild-eyed madness, an evil grin, and sitting yourself in front of the keyboard muttering “Okay, you bastards. Try rejecting this!” and then writing something so unbelievably brilliant that all other writers will disembowel themselves with their pens upon reading it, because there’s nothing left to write.

Neil Gaiman’s Journal: On Writing

Out beyond ideas
of wrongdoing and rightdoing
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
— Rumi

This past weekend, I agreed to accompany my mother to the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival in Stanhope, N.J. I was expecting to be somewhat bored, since I’m more of a music person than a poetry person. It’s a little too esoteric for me to focus on, though I do like certain poets. Aside from lack of sleep issues, I was pleasantly surprised and wished I had spent more time there.

We left early Saturday morning and, as I was unable to fall asleep the night before, I was too tired to focus by the time we got there. My mother ended up being tired too, so we headed back to the hotel to nap. She went back to the festival to see a poet she was interested in, but she was still too tired to really appreciate it. When she came back again, she woke me up and we had dinner then hung around the hotel room for the rest of the night.

Sunday went better, since we were both more rested. Mom went to a discussion group, “Poetry as a Disruptive Force” and I went to listen to the Native American storyteller, Dovie Thomason. She was incredible. After a short break, we went to check out a reading by another poet, but then we were both ready to go. I wish I had been more alert to enjoy it, but I suppose that just means I’ll have to go back! It was a good weekend, and I liked spending time with my mother, as always.