Everywhere I turn in the last few weeks I run across someone talking about poetry publishing–the whos, the whats, the wheres, and the whys.

Publishing has been sort of a closed idea for me for some years. I’ve never felt much desire, and I had a whole list of reasons why (though the biggest one was undoubtedly laziness).

But I was briefly inspired by someone, sometime since Thanksgiving. Yes, that narrows it down considerably. I was going to seek publication! I was going to review my poems and seek publication! I was going to review and rewrite my poems and seek publication! I was going to review and rewrite my poems and ask friends and passersby for input and seek publication! I was going to review and rewrite my poems and ask friends and passersby for input and take a little nap for six months and seek publication!

It is laziness. I can’t deny that. And there’s fear of rejection in there, too. I gots the fear thing in spades.

But I suddenly realized something else, something much worse. Something, in fact, that sucks.

It doesn’t matter if I publish because the people I long to reach aren’t going to read it.

Because I am insane or stupid. You get to choose. And I want to write poetry to the people who don’t read it. People like my husband–who thinks I’m a talentless hack. Imagine a little kid not being picked for the team, wiping a grimy arm across her snot-covered face. “Oh yeah? I’ll show you! You’ll be sorry you didn’t pick meeeee!”

I don’t know why I think there’s any validation in the world that would convince the man I can write a little. Honestly, there might not be any validation in the world that would convince me I can.

I love poets. Most of my closest friends are poets. But dammit, poets, you don’t make me say “Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Watch this!” while I hang from some artistic monkeybars by my toes.