It's been awhile since I whined about
--I mean updated you--on my literary exploits. I know! What a terrible oversight! Thank God I can't think of anything else to blog about.
May I just say that this narcissism--I mean navel-gazing--I mean self-reflection--is stimulated by the fact that I heard Dr. Write read tonight. She was excellent--the idiosyncratic voices of her stories, read in her trademark unprepossessing and supercool style. Her writing makes you glad there is such a thing as writing. Which leads me to this point: lately, I am writing but not finishing.
Case in point, I have a piece of writing that I feel great confidence is going to be a terrific poem that will break your heart. I'm pretty sure that it will break my own heart. I feel this way especially when I just look at the piece of writing, but I am kind of terrified to press on, to try to find a form for it, to add things or take things out. As long as I don't write it, I told my friend tonight after the reading, I haven't yet wrecked it.
Why does writing always make me feel like a rank beginner?
I made a promise to myself that I would have this poem drafted by the next time there's a reading--two weeks from now--and I will read it at the open. So I may have to break my heart a dozen times, or even more than that, within the next two weeks.
