thoughts on a 30/30 (pt. 1)

As you probably know, I’ve been doing a 30/30 on the Tupelo Press website this month. I’ve also been trying to fundraise for the project—and, to put it bluntly, that hasn’t been going well. The fundraising aspect is just as important as the writing itself; without it, they cannot keep the 30/30 going. It’s been going every month for twelve years now, and Kirsten Miles, who leads it, puts in an incredible amount of hard work. As do all the poets who participate in it each go-round. It has been an incredibly valuable experience for me, and I want to share a little of the ‘behind the scenes’ aspects with you all. So, from now until April 30th, I will be sending out a short newsletter every day, featuring some thoughts and experiences I’ve had while participating in it.

Almost every day this month, I’ve thought: I can’t do it. The poem I wrote yesterday is not only my last poem of the month, but the last poem I will ever write. It’s not that I have no ideas—I am a never-ending idea machine when it comes to art. It’s that I just can’t start. None of my ideas are calling out to me, or they all suck, or I’ve already written about this same topic approximately 5,000 times. Or I am just not motivated. I can’t do it.

And then I do it.

And I reread it a few times, make some minor edits, think: Okay, it’s not the best poem I’ve ever written, but it’s pretty damn good! And then I send it in. And almost as soon as I send it in, the doubt sets in. I immediately think of the choices I could’ve made differently that would have made it “better.” I think: not only it is not good, it is the worst poem ever. Not only the worst poem I’ve ever written, but the worst poem anyone has ever penned in the history of time. Strangers are going to read it and wonder how I ever got the gig. People who like my writing are going to read it and go: “I can’t believe I ever supported them. They’re trash.” And then I think: Well, fine, it’s a terrible poem, but it’s too late to change it now.

Then I watch a video or listen to an album or just go the fuck to sleep, and in the morning I realize the draft was neither the best nor the worst, and anyway it’s all subjective, and I get excited for what new thing I might draft that day.

And then, midway through the day, I think: Nope, I can’t do it. There will be no more poems. And then, some time between 5 p.m. and midnight, I write another draft. (To misquote They Might Be Giants, every night it’s like: there are only two poems in me, and I just wrote the third.)

Then lather, rinse, repeat.

Over the next six days, I’ll dig deeper into some of the reasons I think I can’t write any further poems and/or why I think said poems suck after they’re written. I’ll also delve further into some of the ways I get past those feelings and make the poems happen.

In the meantime, you can read through my poems for the month here (the most recent day is always at the top of the page; scroll down to read the rest). My fundraising page is here, and I really hope you’ll consider donating—if everyone one of my subscribers donated just $3, I could meet my goal and then some.