a I’ve been reading William Wordsworth. I chose him for our coffee date last Saturday because I’d just read Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, 1903. The book is full of Wordsworth and Emerson and all kinds of delicious excerpts from writers. I’d chosen to read Rebecca because I’d just finished Erik Larson’s In the Garden of Beasts and needed and antidote.
I’ve grown to love poetry in the last 25 years, though I can’t write it, and I’m too intimidated to take a class. If I tried to write “I Wander Lonely as a Cloud,” it would come out “I wander lonely as a clod,” as in the Mad magazine version.
Actually, one of my desperate iterations of the Laura Bridgman biography was in free verse from multiple points of view. Even my husband didn’t vomit or, worse, laugh till he hooted and teared up and couldn’t get a breath. And I sent it off to Clarion in that form, got a letter in three weeks, wondering if I’d write it in prose. Not a ringing endorsement of my poetic talent, but I think respectable enough for them to see the story and my potential for being its author. I rewrote it and sold it in four months. So maybe I should try to summon the courage to face the humiliation and scorn of my peers.