Lost

On Monday I received a copy of the most recent issue of The Christian Century. The issue contained one of my poems and I promptly placed it on the kitchen table, opened up to the page in question, so that Becky would see the poem when she came home from her night class at 9 p.m. Naturally, after an exhausting day she didn't see it, tossed the magazine into the trash, and I have since, unknowingly, hauled it to the recycle bin.

Oh, well. Not a problem. I lose most of what I write anyway. I often have to go in search of an essay, a story, or a proposal (sometimes even whole books or chapters). I have no filing system, no personal secretary or assistant, who can keep track of all of this stuff. I've even got piles of tear sheets and magazines, but after thirty-five years of writing my guts out, I can't begin to remember where most of this writing goes to die. It's just lost.

Is this a normal life? I ask you.

As for lost writing and what makes for a happy marriage . . . best to forget the past and move on. There's always more to write. And I can always remind Becky of her many faults another day.