As I've said here before, in my writing career I have often felt like the Lone Ranger, without Tonto and the cool horses. Teaching, mom-ing, trying to be a good daughter -- I get so overwhelmed and I feel that no one cares if I write my poems and books, or not. What's the point of writing one more poem? One more scene? Who is really waiting with bated breath to read any of it?
That is not, of course, true. (In my better moments, I've always known it isn't true.) The cabin is like a big old symbol sitting in my backyard: my writing is appreciated; it is supported. (Thank you, Bruce!)
"The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little stardust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched." -Henry David Thoreau