I immersed myself into a tornado of emotion and diligence over the past week and so much poetry burst forth from my brain. I don’t know if this was extreme inspiration or if I’ve finally become comfortable with writing for hours at a time. I wrote about 70 poems over the course of five days. I think the most I’ve ever completed was two poems in one day. My record now is 14 in one day. I became a poetic beast and stopped once I had a total of 100 poems that I could publish. Written over the course of nine months.
I am in the process of preparing a new paperback and eBook for these poems. I am awaiting the proof copy of the paperback so that I can run through it with a fine-tooth comb and correct any errors before official publication. Sadly, that does not arrive in the mail for another week. After making those final revisions, both the paperback and eBook will be ready for publishing. I still have not decided on an official release date, but it will be before the end of September for those of you who are concerned.
Some of my new poetry is featured on my Instagram page, @jamespackwriter, as well as some of my older poetry from my previous collection of poetry “Pariah Bound: The Lonesome Poetry.” My newest poetry is certainly of a higher caliber and I think will be more popular than my previous works. Also, the new collection will be smaller which means it will be cheaper to purchase. I know you’re excited and you’re welcome. I am still working on a few short stories and some of them I am still trying to get published in online magazines but eventually they will be published in a collection in paperback within the next 12 months. More exciting adventures to come!
You sit there, reading, minding your own business. To everyone else you look normal. They all think you’re a normal person having a coffee reading a book. Most of them don’t notice you. You blend into the crowd. You hide in plain sight. None of them could know what you think and feel, and you dare not tell anyone. You’re afraid it will scare them because it does scare you.
You sit, invisible to everyone; with your chest pounding, your thoughts racing, your hands shaking. You’re reacting to something. Something triggered you. Sometimes you know exactly why you were triggered. This is not one of those times. You don’t understand. You can’t explain it. You pick at your fingernails and cuticles. You twirl a pen or pencil in your fingers. You refill your coffee. Was it the coffee? Should you stop drinking coffee? The coffee didn’t bother you yesterday.
You survey the coffee shop. No one knows what’s happening to you. Even if they knew, they wouldn’t understand or care. Why should they care about you? They have their own problems. They’d think you were just some jackass craving attention. You know that’s what they’d think because that’s what you would think. But no one cares what you think just like no one cares what you’re feeling or what you’re doing. You’re the most insignificant person in existence.
You’ve pulled one of your cuticles too much and now you bleed. This distraction only works for a minute. Your thoughts stop racing, but your chest never stops pounding. You want to runaway but don’t know where. What you run from will follow you. How do you get away? Your thoughts are racing back, and your bloody finger doesn’t hurt anymore. You can’t even hurt yourself properly. There are never enough distractions.
You leave. You walk. You burn energy. It distracts you some and makes you tired. You need to feel tired. Keep running away until you’re tired; until your thoughts are tired.
This won’t feel like much of a letter because I’m filling it with mostly questions. It’s a natural desire to want to know the future. Everyone wants to prevent bad things happening in their lives and they want to anticipate possible fortunes. I have enough anxiety and don’t want more, but this little exercise intrigues me. I’m trying to think of what things actually concern me. What do I want to know about myself? I’ll do my best to not sound cliché, but I think it will happen despite my efforts.
I imagine you are myself at 60. Do people ever enjoy our writing? I don’t care about money or fame. I hope we make enough to survive and live comfortably, but does our writing leave any kind of impact? Does anyone care we created these things? Are these things important to anyone besides us? I guess I want to know if there is any point to doing this. What’s the point of writing a story if no one ever reads it? I write for myself and always will, but I want other to enjoy it too. I’m sure you would tell me to keep writing and keep fighting and all the things I want will come to me.
Asking if I’ll find love is one of those cliché questions. Also, it wouldn’t be an accurate question because I’ve already found love a couple times. I knew I loved someone when I cared more for them than I did for myself. I once told someone I wanted them to be happy even if that meant not having me in their life. I know love. I’ve found love. The question is, will I find someone who loves me the way I love them? Will I find someone that’s important to me and I’m important to them?
That’s it! Everything else in my life is trivial. As long as I still have my friends in 30 years, I think I’ll be fine. I know I’ll still write and I hope by then I find someone who wants to share their life with me and I share mine with them. I don’t need a big house and all the money in the world. I guess I’m keeping things pretty simple. Things are never that simple for me. I’m never that simple. I’m looking at a 30-year rollercoaster, aren’t I?