August 30: "The Literary Life," Poetry, Prime Rib

I woke up this morning, as the blues singers like to boast, and the first thing I thought of was my daughter's good news.  (If you don't know what the news was, read yesterday's post.)  It buoyed me as I set about doing what I needed to do today.

I didn't work at the library, believe it or not, but I did edit a podcast for the library this morning.  I also had to troubleshoot some technical issues for the library this evening.  Aside from that, it was all about the finishing details on my book manuscript for my editor.  I sent him my author pictures (thanks to my friend, Ronnie, for those); wrote a short biography and description for the back cover; and received my final blurb.  This weekend, I'm going to make one more pass through the manuscript for typographical errors, and then I'm planning on letting it go.

All of that took most of the morning and afternoon.  And then my family and I went out for a steak dinner (my daughter's choice) to celebrate.  That was my literary life today.

Here's Billy Collins' typical day in his literary life . . .

The Literary Life

by: Billy Collins

I woke up this morning,
as the blues singers like to boast,
and the first thing to enter my mind,
as the dog was licking my face, was Coventry Patmore.

Who was Coventry Patmore?
I wondered, as I rose
and set out on my journey to the encyclopedia
passing some children and a bottle cap on the way.

Everything seemed more life-size than usual.
Light in the shape of windows
hung on the walls next to the paintings
of birds and horses, flowers and fish.

Coventry Patmore,
I’m coming to get you, I hissed,
as I entered the library like a man stepping
into a freight elevator of science and wisdom.

How many things have I looked up
in a lifetime of looking things up?
I wondered, as I set the book on the piano
and began turning its large, weightless pages.

How would the world look
if all its things were neatly arranged
in alphabetical order? I wondered,
as I found the P section and began zeroing in.

How long before I would forget Coventry Patmore’s
dates and the title of his long poem
on the sanctity of married love?
I asked myself as I closed the door to that room

and stood for a moment in the kitchen,
taking in the silvery toaster, the bowl of lemons,
and the white cat, looking as if
he had just finished his autobiography.

Life rarely affords people real reasons to celebrate.  I suppose you can celebrate washing your car or mowing your lawn.  But I don't see too many people dancing because they've had colonoscopies or their wisdom teeth removed.  Nobody throws a party after cleaning the bathroom or defrosting the fridge.  Maybe we should celebrate the small things in life more, but we don't.

But, when your kids see their dreams come true, it's time for prime rib and bacon-cheddar fries.  That's what we did tonight.  And my daughter still looked stunned, as if she doesn't realize how amazing she is.  

That was Saint Marty's literary day:  podcast, poetry, and prime rib with his family.