Monday, August 29, 2005


That's apt enough I suppose.

So yeah. Writing right-o.

I've been writing more poetry. And keeping half an eye (because my ego demands it of course) on the poetry I've had languishing at Understatement. It continues to be read. I'm partly excited (ego gets a hard on) and partly mystefied.

As far as poetry goes I'm an absolute naif. I like to read poetry. I love to read it actually. But as far as the ins and outs of it I'm clueless. I know form and structure on an elementary basis. But, when it comes to the nitty gritty of it I get lost.

I've tried reading more about the technicalities of poetry but I always seem to find myself getting cross eyed and then just not wanting to write poetry.

The part of me that is studious disapproves in extremis. I don't like being willfully ignorant of anything.

If I'm going to be honest I think my resistance to learning how poetry really works is that I just don't think mine is very good. And in some way in my mind learning how poetry works equals realizing just how shitty mine is.

In other news I'm considering doing Nanowrimo again this year. Maybe try my hand at some fantasy. Who knows. Last year I wrote horror. A vampire/sorcery/mythology/thing that was decent. I just barely managed the 50k in words though. Got there through cheating. A long forward and an afterword.

I've been thinking a lot (as usual) about the reality of my writing and the place it has in my life. This past year has been less than creativity friendly. I've made list after list of reasons I've not been doing well. Reasons I should be doing better. I've berated myself about the time I've spent and time I've not spent writing.

I realized the other day while I was scribbling in one of my notebooks that one of the huge reasons my output has been so phenomenally low is that I'm not giving myself a chance to just do my thing. There's been so much craziness and fear in other areas of my life that, being creative has felt like an unearned luxury.

At times when I've sat down with my set aside time to write it's felt like I should be doing other things. Making sure the budget is air tight, checking for places to live, making sure I have a plan. This past year I've learned once again just how fucked life can get when you're trying to hold it down.

I don't know just what my point is here. Other than to get this out and down so I can look at it later.

Most of the time I can see right there in front of my nose where I want to go with my writing. Other times it's so far away and so ugly I can't really set foot on the path.

I don't write because it's just what I want to do. It's not a hobby. It's in my heart and like I've been trying to tell myself for years, there's just no excising it. Ever.

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