Several years ago (when I thought I’d have more time to write seriously), I set a goal for myself: to complete 100 sonnets. I’m under no illusion I’ll be able to “master” the form, but perhaps the effort will permit me a reasonable level of proficiency. I love the sonnet form, and writing 100 of them should be good training. With a few sonnets already written, I gave myself a year.
Didn’t make the goal, but I’m pretty relaxed (for better or worse) so the objective remains with an open time-frame. (I know, management gurus like Peter Drucker and his followers would despise me!)
To date, I’m more than halfway, and I have several in progress, so I’ll keep striving. It may not happen till I’m breathing my last, but I will reach this goal! (Can you envision me on my death-bed furiously penning the last couple of sonnets? Don’t take me yet, Lord! The final stanza needs some fine-tuning!!!)The sonnet I present here has its roots in an editorial column I read last year. Seems like it was shortly after a revelation about one celebrity or another (does it matter?) who had strayed. The Barash column wasn’t as insufferable as some in its defense of “doing what comes naturally.” The column annoyed me. (I don’t deny I may have read too much into the piece.)
Maybe it’s because my kids used to whine “too hard” when faced with challenging tasks, and I usually responded: “You can do hard things!” Then there’s the old saw: if something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. I agree. Marriage is worth doing, and even though we (I) often fail to give it our best effort, there’s no excuse for carelessly throwing it all away.