We writers are hungry for any form of recognition. Having labored long, usually alone at a desk or table, we are continually bedeviled by the imp at your ear: "Who would want to read this stuff? Who you fooling?" Anne Lamont in her book "Bird by Bird" let me know that I am not alone in being haunted by doubt and worry. I believe even the masters of prose and poetry are haunted by sef-doubt. Always. It's enough to make you pluck something from the bar.
Recently I had a piece accepted by a publication called NIFTY LIT. Great, I thought. In reading the acceptance I became aware that said acceptance meant that my poem, "Girlie Sounds", would be come a non-fungible token. Persons who want to read poetry about women rock bands will have to pay something. It's part of that mathematical, commercial morass known as a blockchain.
I speak vaguely because truthfully I don't know how it works. I do not write poetry for the riches. We poets snort at such a notion. We write to share something, to elicit reaction or thought.
If you wish, visit NIFTY LIT. I am very proud to be an author listed there. Maybe you can find your way to a poem featuring Ann Wilson, Beyonce and Bonnie Raitt. If not, just think about how women rockers are too often disregarded. It's the awful truth. That's the lesson of the poem. Something I can share for free.
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