What One Girl Knows

Wrote another poem tonight. That makes nine. My goal, formulated while walking to the Keystone for brunch with Liz and Mitch, is to have fifty poems written by December. And a finished draft of the YA novel, of course -- can't shuck my fiction duties off. Oh, and I also need to revise my zombie love story by December. Maybe write a new story?

Writing feels good. I'm full of anxiety, though -- the time waiting between poems excruciating. Unless I'm vomiting or drunk, I can usually pound out a few pages of my novel whenever I want. But poems need more coaxing.

Immersed in Anne Sexton right now. Simultaneously reading her collected poems, biography (read once before when I was a college freshman) and A Self-Portrait in Letters. I have the desire to write stranger poetry, but there is no John Ashberry in this apartment!

Demetrios, the Greek restaurant we brunched at, was very blue and showcased a giant fake Marlin, instruments, ships, and a fishing net attached to the ceiling. It was the best thing about the restaurant. Their scordalia was weak -- not enough garlic, not nearly enough. Liz was disappointed with her scallops, and Jason has had better spanikopita.