STILL TRYING TO FIGURE OUT THIS LAST CHAPTER

Never write on an empty stomach, even if you feel like having not written anything in two days, the universe will somehow starve to death.

Because … well, it turns out the universe is astonishingly patient.

Poems are, too.

And it could very well be ... you are the one who is starving!

One of the great gifts of retirement is that deadlines are no longer pretending to be inspiration. I am trying to shake it, really, really trying, but "deadline mode" is hard to shake.

During my transcription and editing and ghosty writing years, words were tied to productivity, turnaround times, and obligations, but my writing doesn't owe anyone a quota.

Words can wait until I've had my supper.

I keep telling myself that I want to get back to the writer I was twenty years ago, but I don't think that's quite what is happening. I think something better might be taking place.

Twenty years ago my work often had the energy of discovery.

Now it has the confidence of selection.

Those are not the same thing.

The writer in me—that was me—twenty years ago found striking images.

The writer I am now—that is also me, still me—knows which images deserve to stay.

Perhaps I've been given a gift, which had been sitting in PAnneDora's box, and I finally had the courage to open it, and take the cap off my pen in order to begin again.

And not a glittery gel pen, something less flashy, more lasting, indelible.

I've learned I need to trust the re, thy self who will be well-fed and well-rested!

With less hunger, I'll be able to employ better taste. Well-rested my words will land where they belong instead of trailing off and lying down in all the wrong places.

Tomorrow I'll be able to smile and laugh at hangry, tired Anne who was convinced that the universe would find out she couldn't finish a poem before dinner, let alone find a title that "worked" with the words, that weren't really working, or were they?!?!?

What is that growling? Is it my stomach or all in my head?!?

Suffice it to say, the universe has bird feeders to visit, books to read, food to eat and for thought, walks to take, trips and people to embark upon and embrace, dogs to curl into commas, and poems and plenty of things that can wait until Monday, or the day after -- or even the day after that.

Deadlines are a thing of the past.

There is no finish line.

I will not be disqualified for not finishing the race today and sneaking off to eat snacks and read someone else's writing/book for the rest of the night.

Sweet dreams are made inside this last chapter. This is what I'm thinking.