I took a look in a book

I read a book about poetry yesterday, and how to develop your style and word selection. The book itself was ok; some of it seemed a bit too much like trying really hard to be artistic, and becoming immersed in the process of doing so. She recommended giving yourself another name while you write...that just feels weird to me. There was also a section about making up words...I don't see anything wrong with poetry that is beautiful and relevant and not so convoluted that reading it feels like taking a test.

I think that my conservative side is what's resisting the alter ego concept. There are definitely times where we feel more creative, and I'm sure the spirit of that mood is what the alter ego is suppposed to instantly conjure up. If I had actually finished that section of the book she probably went into something similar; damn my impatience and predisposition to flee in the face of the unknown and creepy.

Speaking of creepy, we bought a dining room table at a divorce sale yesterday. I don't handle suffering very well when I see it in others; if it's my own suffering I can be pretty tough and resilient, but when I see pain and loss in someone else it makes my heart hurt. To see people making deals with this partially broken man made my stomache tighten up. My wife said that he was trying to get rid of everything and wanted it gone, but this had been a home to a family at one point.

We went on Friday and looked at a table, he got misty eyed when he described how he and his wife had made it. We went back yesterday and he had nearly cut the price in half...we had waited him out and he was forced to take even less for his broken home. Hooray for us!

If my writing ever has a different feel to it, and even manages to be poetic or meaningful, you can assume that it's my alter ego behind the key board. As Genreman I will likely explore different styles, and express myself with flair and panache ( a quick consultation with the dictionary...yes, panache is appropriate).

As the sun resembulates and the morning pestapholizes, I bid you adieu.