It Was Only a Dream...
In the past few months, I seem to be able to write productively whenever I sit down in front of the computer and begin typing. I've been around long enough to know that this won't last. Finding time to write is my greatest difficulty.
If I won the lottery, I'd quit my job, buy an old pickup truck, paint it primer gray and stencil "Institute for Applied Prosodic Devices" on the doors. Every day, I'd load the dogs into the truck and chug into town to check the mail.
"There goes the village poet," people would say as I drove by. "He's nuts."
As it is, I have to get dressed, put on my lawyer face and go to work.
Our last Village Poet was Edgar Lee Masters (another lawyer) who wrote most of Spoon River Anthology at his summer home on Spring Lake. A failing marriage and disputes with his neighbors finally drove him out of town in the early days of World War I. There is no historical marker here to note his work--nothing. It's as if he never lived, as if he never wrote.
You'd think, at least, that some clever real estate developer would have figured out a way to use the "Spoon River" name in a million-dollar-a-pop condominium project.
Six hours later:
How strange that I would think of Edgar Lee Masters today.
Here's a link:
Spoon River Anthology