After some exciting dental work today (two new fillings for cavities underneath old fillings) I have no energy to do any of the work I’m supposed to be doing – an interview, a freelance assignment, Crab Creek stuff. I’m barely up to television! Yet here I am on the blog…

I rarely write autobiographical poetry, and when I do, I probably won’t admit that it is. That’s just how I roll. However, now, I can say, I have an autobiographical poem up on Wicked Alice right now in the Spring 2007 issue. Don’t just read it for the possibilities of emotional pornography, though – the issue is a great collection of edgy poems! (Full disclosure: I was never in med school, only pre-med, but we did get to sit in on the dissection of cadavers the day they got into the heart. Practically autobiographical.)

On the night of my birthday, I went to see Peter S. Beagle, author of The Last Unicorn and A Fine and Private Place, among other books. He read a long story about sinister wine and then played the guitar and sang two songs he had written. He’s about my Dad’s age. He also dropped a Buffy reference casually during his Q&A, which will make me love him even more forever. I heart Peter S. Beagle.