Once at the event, we leafed through the bin of books for sale (because they are irresistible) and, low and behold, there was a Bukowski. Settled in beside my daughter and her new purchases, we then heard raw, rich, gritty, heartfelt, and moving poetry, some of which was inspired by and even mentioned... Bukowski.
I sat in the audience, soaking in the talents of these wordsmiths and feeling out of place. My writing is so different than what they offered. No less from the soul, no less full of heart and experience, but very, very different. Yet, To Miss the Stars offers its own discourse on communication and emotion and is no less a celebration of the written word. And I know my writing comes from that inner place, that inner stream of less-than-consciousness, that well that cannot be turned on and off like a tap. It is that writing that comes unasked out of my heart and my mind and my mouth and my gut. I know no other way to write.
Maybe that is why Bukowski is haunting me. To let me know I'm right where I belong.