As always, an afternoon with Jeannie and Teresa makes me feel as if, maybe, possibly, I am doing the work I ought to be doing. What a gift it is to have such minds in my life, not to mention the model of their commitment, their persistence, the sheer hard work they do, day in and out. Of course, they can still (inadvertently) make me feel like a dilettante. Oh, Dawn, she's the one rereading Kidnapped and watching Mary Tyler Moore reruns. Meanwhile, Teresa and Jeannie discuss brain chemistry and Thomas Mann.

We are beginning to cogitate about bringing some of the work we've been doing privately into a more public sphere, possibly through a shared Substack journal that would include commentary about our conversations and readings as well as poems we've written under one another's influence. So that's another thing to add to my to-do list: figure out the details of the platform and discover if it might possibly work for us.

One interesting element of yesterday's conversation concerned publishing. We discovered that all of us, over the past few years, have significantly reduced our engagement in journal submissions. In some cases, that's because journals that once reliably took our work no longer publish (Gettysburg Review, Scoundrel Time). Sometimes new editors have changed a journal's focus and our work is no longer of interest (Sewanee Review). Print-only journals have almost no circulation, so publishing in them can feel like graveyard work.

But as Jeannie also pointed out, at this stage in our lives, the three of us don't need journal publication to pad our resumes or comfort our egos. It's only purpose is to give us a public voice, so why not create a place where we can do that for ourselves, in our own way?

It's okay if you tell me I need another unwieldy project like I need a kick in the head. I know I'm already overloaded. Soon I'll be on the road teaching high schoolers. I've got an online class on the long poem to design. I'm editing academic texts. I'm writing my own poems. I'm researching for a big collaborative performance with the Monson Arts conference faculty. I'm mulling a new collection. I've got to write a giant critical essay about Baron's oeuvre. I have homestead chores. I have fragile parents who live five hours away from me. I'm raising a lively kitten with gastrointestinal trouble. My kid is getting married next summer. I'm turning 61 in less than a month.

All I can say in my defense is that being around brilliant, curious, warm-hearted people is energizing. I spent my apprentice years largely alone as a writer, and now I am basking in a community of poets and other artists. I scrabbled across an ice floe and fell into a warm bright sea.