I think I have discovered my source of writer’s block. I am trying to do too much with these poems. If they not are too broad, they are overly nostalgic, rueful, and occasionally trite.
The Nebraska packing-house romance poem is the most problematic (the story of my parents meeting in 1979). It keeps turning bitter on me and I’m quite sure it’s not working.
I always hated it when people waltzed into creative writing classes thinking that writing was some sort of whimsical therapy session, but I’m afraid this little collection is feeling more personal than most of my writing and it is bringing up a load of therapy-worthy issues. I continually try to detach myself. Maybe that is also part of the trouble. Perhaps, I should simply dive into the madness and hope I can tread through it?
On a high note, my latest and best poem so far is about living in river towns. All of my major homes have been near the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers. Flat and steady non-river towns, like flat and dull men, will never hold my interest.