i was surrounded by a lot of amazing classmates at iowa. some were outstanding poets; others had incredible potential. i thought all of them would publish books, i thought all of them would clear a path for themselves in the writing world.
i find it disheartening that a lot of them have stopped writing. i remember scoffing at marvin bell when he told a group of us that "in ten years most of you will no longer be writing." i thought to myself: not my classmates. not these men and women who spend nights talking craft, who spend mornings arguing the influence of ashbery and graham, who spend afternoons workshopping poems with an awe-inspiring intelligence.
he was right. and i was wrong. so very wrong.
i scrolled down my list of iowa buddies on facebook tonight and realized that many of them never mention writing on their walls, many of them never mention sending out to lit journals, many of them never mention struggling with the muse, etc. in fact, many of them don't even sound like writers anymore. you know what i mean?
why did so many of my classmates stop writing?
did other artistic passions get in the way? did love, family, the pursuit of money demand more and more attention? did the urge to write slowly dissipate? i'm guessing it's a combination of all these things.
this is all so depressing. i better stop here before i shed a few tears. i'm going to log off right now and start work on a new poem.