Fitting a year in 600 words (unsuccessfully)

I have been writing daily for more than 400 days running. For every day last year I wrote a poem. Poetry every day. It seemed slightly unfathomable at the time I began but I just kept going. Today I want to do a little bit of thinking and reflecting about the experience of making a poem every day. I am currently freewriting 750 words every morning these days instead of making poems daily (although I am still making the inevitable bi-weekly poem).

One of the things I became proud of, frustrated and enthused by was the amount of poetry I ended up seeking out to read/experience as a way of feeding my process. I am happy to report that I am slightly better read and cultured in general when it comes to poetry. I scooped up the words of Diane Wackoski and Frank O'Hara. I inched myself closer to the Seattle poetry slam community and whetted my ready eardrums with the sounds of Jeananne Verlee and fell in love with Andrea Gibson. The flashbacks to these first encounters are, even now, like fire in the churchyard of my memories. Each inspired me not stop myself. Helped me give up the habit of holding or hoping to hold the words I make as sacred. And now I have graduated to even more freely and frenetically churned out words. 750 every morning. Although I am still working on not lapsing backward in the instance of misspelled words.

I became frustrated with my lack of background reading and noticed how all the time certain subjects and phrases and syllabic tricks of light were reused in my work. Some almost to the point of being worn down. I scapegoated all the time, blaming my repetition on the limited amount of poetry I perceived myself to have read. Reading books of poetry would simultaneously inspire me to compile a manuscript of my own as and intimidate me way down to the marrow. I would sometimes think I could never have enough pieces that were good enough and cohesive enough to accompany each other to be bound together. It's a struggle to be working on a book.

A new challenge arose for me. Before last year I placed my identity as a writer and poet as secondary to my other activities. And by secondary I mean that I would not bring it up when introducing myself, feel nervous about writing in public, and almost NEVER share my writing unless the space was every clearly constructed to be a space of sharing (like a classroom or writer's group). I was anxious about initiating any interaction's segue into the subject of writing or poetry. Because I was so often confronted by my own practices in poetry, their enlarged presence in my life forced me to talk about it with people in my life. I would tell people on the bus "Why yes I am writing. I'm writing what might be poem." I began reading to friends in cafes (with small wibbles in my tummy) and asking for feedback. I have made not-yet-successful attempts at booting up a writing group. And am SO MUCH better at fending off feelings of illegitimacy when it comes to being a poet and writer. It is my first occupation these days. When someone asks me what I do I answer "I'm a poet/writer/(sometimes performer). I write."

I just realized the subject for this post is WAAAAY to big to be done in a single post. By next Saturday I'll be back here. Writing about my mangled sordid relationship with the keyboard. Preview: I am a newly self-described pen fetishist.
Also I need to tell you about navigating the difference between the regimented "every morning" writing and the "just churn it out by midnight" approach of poem-a-day.
So much to share!
<3