Now What?

I bet you didn't know this, but it's been thirty-seven days since I wrote my goodbye blog for "London, Jaunts, and Full-Frontal Blogging." Thirty-seven days of telling my travel stories to my family, friends, distant relatives,and (occasionally) random strangers. Thirty-seven days of getting an American-sized fix of country music, good 'ole PBR, Runza, driving on the right side of the road (especially back and forth on I-80), etc. Besides the accent withdrawal and pangs of heartsick longing whenever I even hear the word 'London,' I'd say I'm generally readjusted.

I just forgot how quiet life in the Midwest can be. When I first got back, there was such a whirlwind of people to see, unpacking and repacking to do as I divided my time between Iowa City and Lincoln, work at the Englert, and a road trip to Kansas. Now the craziness is dying down (case in point: I'm spending the entire weekend hibernating in my apartment). I've got time to think, and the question on my mind is: Now what?

This is a dangerous question. It led me to doubt my entire decision to major in English as I looked at my meager work hours and my dismal budget and felt reality stabbing me in the side with a broken pencil tip. I saw a foreshadowing of what my life was going to be like after one more year of ignorant college bliss. I saw a future of impoverished struggling with a useless university degree and a lead weight of debt. I saw piles and piles of rejection letters and crumpled manuscripts.

But then I realized what an awesome adventure that struggle has the potential to be. A little grimy and dark, yes, but so was London at times and that never stopped me from loving it. Even more encouraging than this epiphany was the fact that with all my down-time I decided to go through every word document on my computer last night to delete stuff I didn't need, and you know what I found? A hell of a lot of writing. There's a reason I'm an English major. There's a reason I came to Iowa for school. My future can sort itself out. That's an ending even I don't want to put into words yet.

What I am going to do is start another blog (ta da!). I want all my writing to have a chance to be more than a forgotten word doc. file. Some of it's funny because it's so bad. Some of it's surprisingly full of potential. Most of it is stuff that I would never send to publishers because my writing style is so changed, but I'm going to publish it here. Just because I've readjusted who I am doesn't mean the journey of how I got here can't be at least read, just noted.




How to Write a Love Poem that's not Stupid
By S.M. Kosch

A) WWJD (Why Weave Jaded Designs?)

I want to sing but I won’t. That’s cliché.

Poetry is cliché too, but in not quite the same way.

It’s only bad when the things you have to say

rhyme.

My alternative—

I like the music you like, and I like the thought 

of me strumming a guitar in my room while you think about kissing me.

[That’s kissed-shade poetry instead.]

B) Against the Pod Squad

They say: “This feeling inside.

My heart is smiling.”

Is it?

Hearts are muscles and tissue and if one smiled it would mean

an alien creature infestation or robots.

That’s scary shit.

But I will admit I feel lighter when I see you.                                                                                                              That must just be gravity shift^ing.