I cannot believe it has been eight months since I wrote an entry in this blog. It's not an accurate representation of my writing life, however. I journal more or less daily, elsewhere, and I have written, and had published, a few reviews of books of poetry since the new year. I have even updated my "poet" blog more frequently than this site, although that's not saying much.
But I am, ironically, writing here now because I recently experienced a week of feeling like I wanted to cut myself off from all social activity (especially social media) contact, simply because my phone threw up a suggested article about a subject that D. and I had been discussing, but which I had not googled or otherwise searched for or entered in my phone or computer. My phone had "heard" our conversation - and between that, and what feels like the super-speedy development and abundance of AI applications, I was wanting to shut it all down and retreat. Everything felt too fast, too much. I entertained the idea of isolation.
And then I was asked if I would write a new review of a poetry book by someone who is very active in social media, and has a real presence (it seems) in the literary journal world. I was both attracted by the idea and daunted. He was, is, engaged. And to review his book would force me, too, to enter into an engagement that would require time and energy. Just as I was feeling I had too little of both. I had a choice: be apart from the world or be part of the conversation. I forced myself to sleep on it, and to try to ignore the flattery of being asked to write more (remembering in particular the gushing email of appreciation I received from the author of the last book I reviewed) and the impulse to please people who ask things of me by saying yes. But I knew, even as I was delaying my response to the editor, that I wanted to take on this challenge. Because I do want to connect with other writers. I do want to write. Even writing this, this morning, in between watching a 3-year old and 10-month old, and doing all the chorse on the property, has made me feel better. Writing is a balm. It's how I process. How I am, at some level, I suppose. And even though I could easily spiral about where AI is going - having read so many science fiction and dystopian books as a younger person - I also want to understand more about it.
There's a phenomenon in AI called "hallucinating," for example. And it's almost precisely the sort of thing that my mother-in-law is experiencing as a human being with dementia. The parallel intrigues me. And writing, although apart from nature, and using technology, is another way I can explore my connections to the natural world. To think them through. And so I said "yes" to the review, and am back here, and am looking ahead to preparing my poetry manuscript while writing a new review of a complex book and reading a book a day for the Sealey challenge. And caring for the grandsons. And caring for the mother-in-law. And the property. And working full time. A full life. A rich life.
