I’ve taken on a free-lance grant-writing project. Why not. I can always use a few extra bucks. And I’m one of those weird writers who actually likes grant writing. The poetry of grant writing. Now there’s a book I should write.
I’m getting myself revved up to write by cleaning my apartment. I need to feel order around me before I plunge myself into the chaos of creation. When I had a full-time job, I would clean off my desk and computer station — file everything sharpen pencils, remove all traces of dust. Now I wash floors, throw out paper, still do a little dusting. Metaphorically dusting off my brain. It’s been a while since I’ve concocted a grant proposal. I used to be really good at the kind of persuasive writing that makes people believe that what the project is planning to do really will change the world. Well, maybe not the whole world; at least a little but important piece of it.
I did a little preliminary ruminating earlier today. I think I’ve got an approach. As they say, “ya gotta have a gimmick.” It’s all matter of marketing.
I’m a terrible salesperson when I have to sell actual objects, things, consumables. But I’m pretty good at selling ideas, especially if I believe in them. I might have made a great evangelist — that is if there were anything I believed in enough to want to preach about it.
I finished listening to The Footprints of God. The ending is pretty much what I expected but with a twist that I didn’t expect. I liked it.
I’m ready to roll out the words. Tomorrow. After I wash my hair. Maybe run out and get some fresh corn. Orange juice for my mother.
My mother says “oranjuice” when she means “oranges.” One of my most embarassing moments happened in my oral interpretation of poetry class in college as I began to read Wallace Steven’s Sunday Morning and said “Complacencies of the peignoir and late/ coffee and oranjuice in a sunny chair…..” It’s still one of my favorite poems, but I still cringe every time I think of it. Everyone in the class started laughing, and I really had no idea what was so funny. My mother’s mispronunciation had become mine and I never even realized it.
That’s not the only time in my life when I’ve come out looking stupid. It’s a good thing I’m not a perfectionist. Good thing I’ve got a resilient ego. I think I’m better at losing than I am at winning. I’ve had more practice at it.
Except for grant proposals. I’ve won lots of them, millions of bucks worth. But not for me. After all, I’m only the writer.
Tomorrow I start, again.