If I'm going down, I might as well go down in a blaze. No, glory doesn't have a thing to do with it.

Almost six months ago I was seized by a crazy moment of inspiration and got down the beginnings of a story, written specifically for (and sort of about) my kids. I was all afire about the thing, really excited about how the first run sounded. It needed work but I felt like the bones of the tale was there and workable. Unfortunately, I ran out of work time on it. Like so many things, it fell victim to a lack of time, focus, and energy.

And now I can't find the stupid thing.

I'm so frustrated. I'm resisting the urge to fill the recycle bin with things that seem useless and needless right now - like the stack of notebooks full of my other writing. I cannot believe how many random bits of poetry are hidden here, there, everywhere. And I'm stunned at how awful it all is.

Yeah, sure. I used to write poetry. But none of it was very good, none of it is something that I'm proud of, and none of it is really something anyone wants to read. That's how it all feels right now. I cannot imagine what I used to think I was doing or why. Or why I thought anyone would want to read it.

All of this happening on a day when I feel insane. Almost physically shaking from the effort to be reasonable, calm, focused. In an earlier age, I would have gotten stinking drunk. In a more recent age, I would have gone to the store and bought cake and ice cream, with fresh cookies to tide me over on the drive home. Now, I just don't know what to do.

But burning all the old poetry is a really appealing plan of action.