We've had several days of good hiking this week, most of it in the Red Cliffs Reserve.
I spent whatever time I wasn't hiking or taking care of the girl reading and thinking my way into this month's poetry column.
I had to read nearly a dozen titles for a 600 word review - and that's after I'd selected which four new books I'd be reviewing - which seems ridiculous but also sort of apt.
This is my third review in a row, as my co-columnist was tits-deep in editing and needed the analytical part of her brain for her own book.
Every month I thought it would be a bit easier, but every month I'd feel a little panicked ten days out from my deadline, my head empty, the books strange & unknowable.
Reading the books before bed helped some. Just as I was drifting off, phrases would come to me and I'd rouse and reach for my laptop. Other nights, it just kept me up.
(But I think that's because my own book is coming out soon and I wonder if anyone is going to train themselves on my strange & unknowable poetry...)
I feel like I'm learning to read all over again, which is the best goddamn part.
Except when I'm ten days out, then it feels like I'm buried to my ankles in loose sand.