Every once in a while, I think it's time. I buy the Writer's Market. I start to pull my best bits of almost finished stuff. Almost finished. Amazing how nothing is ever truly finished. There's always something, isn't there? The articles aren't fitting quite right; the transition is off; did I break the line for content, or shape? Maybe I should have taken G's advice on the first stanza, shouldn't have taken his counsel on the fifth.
Maybe I should put it into the quiet place, that back of the mind space where inspiration sometimes finds me. Maybe that last hanging syllable will resolve itself to the perfect phrasing if I just give it a little more time. Time.
Poetry as wound?
Do we have a metaphor?
Forced and ill-fitting, but yes...a metaphor! I feel so writerly!
And isn't that what writing is half the time? Forced and ill-fitting?
I confess; the week has been hard. I've been putting in my daily words, but struggling to do so.
I've been writing at a story all week, approaching it at different angles, testing the point of view, building a world in the negative space...but building. And that's something.
But I haven't even looked at the Writer's Market on the table. The poetry in the backroom.
WOK Blog Challenge: Up to Date with this entry
ROW80 Update: 250+ words per day, check. Writing every day, check. We said nothing about quality.
Magic Spreadsheet: 4,524 words since June 2, an 11 day chain, 80 points.