Greetings from the Max Perkins room at the Weymouth Center's Writers in Residence Program. I am officially a writer, in residence, in Max's room, writing away for this week in Southern Pines. I am making good use of the fine desk in this very fine old house. (And no, for those of you "in the know" I have not run into any of the ghosts that are supposed to also be residents.)
I've been sorting through all of the poetry I've amassed since publishing my first chapbook, and happily, there's more to work with than I had imagined. It's taken these first couple of days to excavate everything. And honestly, there are a few things in here that I don't even remember writing (!), but overall, I'm surprised to find that I like a lot of it. Maybe it's some kind of Weymouth ju-ju or something. All of my writer friends who have spent time in this program spoke so highly of the place, I think they've left behind creative ether in which I can dwell.
Here's an example I found in my writing notebook, it's dated 9.30.22, and there's nothing else written except this: If there is a god, for sure she cares about bacon and eggs.
Now COME ON, that has to find a home somewhere in my writing, don't you think?