It’s midnight on December 31, 2013. I’m sitting in a Hyatt House hotel room with my snoozing family, working on this e-tangible exercise in narcissism on the sad little desk provided to me in room 1116. We came down to Madison tonight because Casey and I have an appointment early tomorrow (today?) morning and with the cold and the snow, we figured it would probably be easier to just get a room for the night.

We took the kids swimming at the hotel pool while it was literally negative degrees below zero outside. I love doing those sorts of things. And, this hotel overlooks the neighborhood where Jesse and I first lived in Madison. In fact, from our room, I can see where my shitty apartment used to be. (It was torn down this summer, and millions of moths, bees, and ants had to find shelter elsewhere.)

This month was a good one, as I had a poem published in Gold Dust magazine, and notification that one or two more may be published somewhere else. I submitted to Marge Piercy’s writing workshop, though I’m nervous she never received my email, or my follow-up email. I can only apply in the month of December, so methinks I’m sending it one more time before the new year.

Just wondering: is anyone out there very different in real life than they are in their writing life? I’m a funny, sarcastic, sometimes mean person in real life, but my poetry and fiction is very…not. I’m much deeper on the page than I am in person, which is kind of sad. When I blog or write in the first person though, I’m very much the same awful person…it’s just in poetry or when assuming another persona that I seem to be intelligent and thoughtful. (Yeah, my personal FaceBook page? Let’s just say you don’t really need hip-waders to get through.)