Dry Spells, Meet Dry Vermouth.

Summer and writing typically go hand in hand for me, and if you're reading this, you know this to be true. Something's taken me a particularly long time to get the ball rolling this year. The wedding? Maybe. Lethargy? Perhaps. A DVR malfunction separating me from Anthony Bourdain's television program? It's possible. Yes, the absence of time, ambition, or inspiration don't result in outlines for subject or skeletons of worthwhile projects, though it might result in a kick-ass wedding and some fine tomatoes from the garden. With the help of a good friend and a black spear through two olives in a vodka martini, I've found some insight.

First of all, I'm really great at mental initiation. I can take a momentary idea, begin fleshing it out, dissecting it and adding perspective, then finally settle on an angle and a valuable conclusion. I'm just terrible at picking it up again the next day and developing it in a way that's worthy of sharing. It's almost as though I'm satisfied by my own internal pontification, and as a result I'm less compelled to make it known outside of myself.

Second, I do so much dabbling in novels, short stories, songs, essays, newspapers, blogs, talk radio, podcasts, television, and poetry that I haven't found my genre. Plot ideas with plausible engines, possible symbols and allegories to develop and characters to drag through the process of learning, exploration-worthy themes demanding navigation and ambiguous justification, and no decided spot to send them with any consistency. I am, at least in my mind, a Renaissance man of the ideas that may or may not lead to the written word. Focusing on a genre might bring about real material, right?

This second conclusion gets more complicated when I consider what I do day in and day out for nine months out of the year. Exploring all of these genres with classrooms of teenagers doesn't simplify the wrangling process I'd have to endure if I found a home for my own work. I'm afraid of what might happen if I lose touch with all those lovely genres and the possibilities they offer. What if I mail it in during a poetry lesson because I no longer write poems? Might the next poet laureate, unassumingly sitting my class awaiting inspiration, remain dormant, silent, and listless in their own confused and muddled potential?

Here in the blogosphere, at the end of this essay, I don't have a simple answer except to say that if I really want to write, I'll find a way. It will happen not by season, nor network programming. It will happen when it needs to and as I see fit. Furthermore, I don't believe any potential poet laureate will decide to pursue poem writing solely based on my teaching skills or knowledge of his or her genre. I can go right on teaching just the same. What is clear, however, is that I need to spend more time with my good friend, and keep ordering those vodka martinis, with extra olives please.