529 Plan).
Even with that perfectly reasonable explanation, and perfectly realized home page, I still feel the need to defend my idea, by tracing the synaptic misfires that went into creating it. My thoughts went something like this: A. people don’t read poetry much anymore. B. I like poetry, or at least I did in college. C. I’m not sure I understand the poetry I read in journals now; it seems like another language, disconnected from my undergrad Keats, Stevens and Neruda. D. This new poetry seems rooted in abstract language and has little to do with the real world. E. I have spent most of my life covering the real world as a journalist, first for a small business publication and then for the local newspaper. F. In that time, I’ve noticed that business writing is the driest, boringest, least imaginative writing in the world. G. At one time, I wanted to be a poet. H. It’s really too bad people don’t read poetry; they should. I. Early middle age is such a creepy time, and I constantly find myself wishing I were more like the younger me. J. Perhaps fiscal poetry is the perfect union of my overworked, analytical, continuous-list-making left-brain and my seemingly ignored creative right.
Conclusion: I shall now quit my job and endanger my family’s future to follow my youthful dream of writing stock news and tips in pedestrian, amateurish verse.
The thing that finally tipped me over the edge was when I read a story about the heiress to this big fortune leaving a huge pot of money for the advancement of poetry. I wrote a grant proposal and a business plan, and shocked myself by getting some actual funding (though far less than I ended up needing). Whenever I described the idea, people smiled and I suppose I mistook their bemusement for enthusiasm. I bought two new computers, hired a tech/ad specialist to help create the website and to sell advertising, rented a little office, and, hell, when you get a grant and people are smiling and the start-up costs are minimal, you kind of have to go through with it. I quit my job, built my site, quickly burned through the tiny grant, emptied our savings, went in debt, stalled, spent six months fretting, and then got ice-cold feet, realizing at the last minute, days before we were supposed to go live, that no way in hell was anyone ever going to use the Internet to read poems about—
“Dan Fouts,” my father says as we watch football highlights on SportsCenter, as we always do after dinner. “He threw the prettiest ball. He had a beard you know.”
“Yep,” I say. My dad always brings up the old bearded quarterback, Dan Fouts.
“I don’t know how he played in that beard.” My father pinches his face when he watches TV, like a trial judge unhappy with the lawyers in his courtroom.
“Hmm.”
“Had to be itchy.”
“You think?”
“Sure. You know who else threw a nice ball?”
I can hear typing coming from upstairs, the rackety tap-tap of plastic keys, Lisa on the computer again, no doubt telling Chuck how she dreams of caressing his—
“Joe Willie Namath. Before his knees went to shit.” Dad shakes his head. “He could sling it. Maynard and Sauer and Boozer and Snell. Great team. Last of the great ones.”
The last great football team was in 1968…I just say, “Yeah.”
I hear footsteps on the stairs and look over my shoulder. Lisa has changed into yoga pants and is clutching the grim stack of monthly bills and bank statements from the top of my dresser.
So it’s time for our monthly descent into the finances… agin . I stand and follow her to the kitchen, where we lay out the bills and bank statements, and I give her the basic outline of our trouble (while sparing her the grisliest details). I can see by her face that she suspects it’s even worse than I’m letting on; in my defense, the only thing I hold back is the immediacy of some of our troubles. For instance, Lisa knows we’re way behind on our mortgage payment; what I don’t feel the need
Even with that perfectly reasonable explanation, and perfectly realized home page, I still feel the need to defend my idea, by tracing the synaptic misfires that went into creating it. My thoughts went something like this: A. people don’t read poetry much anymore. B. I like poetry, or at least I did in college. C. I’m not sure I understand the poetry I read in journals now; it seems like another language, disconnected from my undergrad Keats, Stevens and Neruda. D. This new poetry seems rooted in abstract language and has little to do with the real world. E. I have spent most of my life covering the real world as a journalist, first for a small business publication and then for the local newspaper. F. In that time, I’ve noticed that business writing is the driest, boringest, least imaginative writing in the world. G. At one time, I wanted to be a poet. H. It’s really too bad people don’t read poetry; they should. I. Early middle age is such a creepy time, and I constantly find myself wishing I were more like the younger me. J. Perhaps fiscal poetry is the perfect union of my overworked, analytical, continuous-list-making left-brain and my seemingly ignored creative right.
Conclusion: I shall now quit my job and endanger my family’s future to follow my youthful dream of writing stock news and tips in pedestrian, amateurish verse.
The thing that finally tipped me over the edge was when I read a story about the heiress to this big fortune leaving a huge pot of money for the advancement of poetry. I wrote a grant proposal and a business plan, and shocked myself by getting some actual funding (though far less than I ended up needing). Whenever I described the idea, people smiled and I suppose I mistook their bemusement for enthusiasm. I bought two new computers, hired a tech/ad specialist to help create the website and to sell advertising, rented a little office, and, hell, when you get a grant and people are smiling and the start-up costs are minimal, you kind of have to go through with it. I quit my job, built my site, quickly burned through the tiny grant, emptied our savings, went in debt, stalled, spent six months fretting, and then got ice-cold feet, realizing at the last minute, days before we were supposed to go live, that no way in hell was anyone ever going to use the Internet to read poems about—
“Dan Fouts,” my father says as we watch football highlights on SportsCenter, as we always do after dinner. “He threw the prettiest ball. He had a beard you know.”
“Yep,” I say. My dad always brings up the old bearded quarterback, Dan Fouts.
“I don’t know how he played in that beard.” My father pinches his face when he watches TV, like a trial judge unhappy with the lawyers in his courtroom.
“Hmm.”
“Had to be itchy.”
“You think?”
“Sure. You know who else threw a nice ball?”
I can hear typing coming from upstairs, the rackety tap-tap of plastic keys, Lisa on the computer again, no doubt telling Chuck how she dreams of caressing his—
“Joe Willie Namath. Before his knees went to shit.” Dad shakes his head. “He could sling it. Maynard and Sauer and Boozer and Snell. Great team. Last of the great ones.”
The last great football team was in 1968…I just say, “Yeah.”
I hear footsteps on the stairs and look over my shoulder. Lisa has changed into yoga pants and is clutching the grim stack of monthly bills and bank statements from the top of my dresser.
So it’s time for our monthly descent into the finances… agin . I stand and follow her to the kitchen, where we lay out the bills and bank statements, and I give her the basic outline of our trouble (while sparing her the grisliest details). I can see by her face that she suspects it’s even worse than I’m letting on; in my defense, the only thing I hold back is the immediacy of some of our troubles. For instance, Lisa knows we’re way behind on our mortgage payment; what I don’t feel the need
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