I was once that twenty-something girl/young woman, longing to be a writer and chasing after passion. I just didn’t publish poetry at that time, which is probably just as well, as I don’t think it would have been particularly good. (Incidentally, I was concurrently engaged in a very serious career-type job— both at the time, and following.)

Now I write and publish poetry with the depth and wisdom of middle-age — some of which is, incidentally, about death — but the real thing, which is impossible to avoid once you’ve lived more than four decades on this earth. The question is — is this what sells? The Insta-poet fad, with its simple concepts, and oblique, often cliched references, can be disheartening — but I guess I’ll keep doing what I do, aiming higher and finding my readers where I can…