I've been having a tough time concentrating these days. The child is ambulatory . . . well, not just ambulatory, he's a dynamo. He's in the climbing stage, so he's getting on top of everything--the fireplace, the sofa, the dog. I have to be ever vigilant, so I really can't do much of anything except keep L preoccupied.
I really shouldn't use my son as an excuse for my not writing or reading much this summer, but it's true. He's quite a big reason for my lack of productivity.
There is hope, though. August is just around the corner and I plan on writing a poem a day as I do every August with my usual online writing group.
I've got a stack of beautiful books on my desk. Just received Jonathan Thirkield's The Waker's Corridor from The Academy. I've also got Myung Mi Kim's Penury and Michael S. Harper's Use Trouble. I've also got The Complete Stories by Flannery O'Connor.
Maybe being in their proximity will urge me to write.
I am, however, currently commenting on a friend's manuscript, so I'm doing something poetry related.
Manuscript 3 is out of my house.
My house is hot.
We Were Promised Jetpacks.