poetry reading
I love junglemonkee. I love the way she writes, and I love listening to her read. She is so funny and her writing style is beautiful. (And if you are reading this, my dear, just allow yourself to accept the praise, because you deserve it and you are worthy.)
I love that she inspires me to keep writing and do better with no more than her presence. Whenever she announces that she will be going to a poetry reading, I feel a great need to be there, too, if only to hear her read. But because she claims to enjoy my reading, I can't just sit in the stands and listen.
It was because she was going to tonights reading in Los Gatos that I agreed to go, too, claiming that I had some new poetry to read. This resulted in a franic attempt at the last minute to pull together and finally finish several poems that I had been poking at with a long stick for weeks. I literally finished up the last poem, and then hoped in the car.
Normally, I spend those several hours before a reading going over and reading my poetry out loud to get the rhythms down, so I don't stumble all over the place when I'm reading. Because I didn't have that time to prepare, I went through this entire reading nervous and stumbling.
I'm sure that if I had been able to take the time to prepare properly, I would have been more comfortable with the reading.
It was good, though, as anything writing related make me feel good and more alive and more real, even went it's a little painful and raw and exposed.
I loved tonight. I loved hearing the other readers, and I loved reading, fumbling though I felt
I love that she inspires me to keep writing and do better with no more than her presence. Whenever she announces that she will be going to a poetry reading, I feel a great need to be there, too, if only to hear her read. But because she claims to enjoy my reading, I can't just sit in the stands and listen.
It was because she was going to tonights reading in Los Gatos that I agreed to go, too, claiming that I had some new poetry to read. This resulted in a franic attempt at the last minute to pull together and finally finish several poems that I had been poking at with a long stick for weeks. I literally finished up the last poem, and then hoped in the car.
Normally, I spend those several hours before a reading going over and reading my poetry out loud to get the rhythms down, so I don't stumble all over the place when I'm reading. Because I didn't have that time to prepare, I went through this entire reading nervous and stumbling.
I'm sure that if I had been able to take the time to prepare properly, I would have been more comfortable with the reading.
It was good, though, as anything writing related make me feel good and more alive and more real, even went it's a little painful and raw and exposed.
I loved tonight. I loved hearing the other readers, and I loved reading, fumbling though I felt