There are a lot of misconceptions out there about Emily Dickinson — that she was reclusive, a crazy woman in the attic who wrote thousands of poems, stuffed them all in drawers, and was never published in her lifetime.
In fact, she was published — several of her poems saw print in local newspapers. Also, she wrote thousands of letters to many other writers and intellectuals of her day, looking for advice about writing, sharing thoughts, asking questions. She might have been physically reclusive, but she was intellectually expansive and craved contact with others. If she were alive today, she’d be one of our most prolific and celebrated bloggers, I’m sure. Also, while you might have thought that she’d be a cat person, in fact she had a dog, a big black Newfie who was her constant companion for sixteen years.
I’ve had this poem by Dickinson pinned to my wall for years now:
Luck is not chance –
It’s Toil –
Fortune’s expensive smile
Is earned –
The Father of the Mine
Is that old fashioned Coin
We spurned –
