For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been writing a lot of new fiction and sending old and new fiction out to a lot of places. I keep thinking about my blog, and how much I love writing it and how lucky I am to know all the interesting and fun and smart and kind people who come over here and say stuff. But I haven’t posted, even though I have a series of great interviews to put up (Ingrid, the girl in the cafe is next, and then Lisa Alber and then Debbie Freedman…), which I’ll do this week. Mostly, that’s because every time I go to write something here, I think to myself that I always seem to write about the same things. That’s true of my fiction too.
And then I found this sonnet, one I’ve not read before, and it made me realize that it’s okay to write, over and over again, about the things that matter to us. It was okay for Shakespeare to do. And it is okay for me too:
Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.