Soon.

Soon there will be grading a-plenty, and after that or maybe before, a Christmas tree and lights, and baking and gift-buying and birthdays, at least at my house, and festivities galore. GALORE.

But before that, I am trying to do a little writing. This afternoon, I went down to the Roasting Co. for a few hours and took out my second manuscript, the one that I worked on during my sabbatical, and tried to do a little assessment and revision. The last time I did this was one month ago, I happen to know, because one month ago was the date on the notes and drafts I looked at then.

I have to say, it felt good. It took a minute, though, to get in gear. First I had to locate everything, both hard and digital copies. Then, I had to note which drafts were pretty far along, and therefore closer to finished, and which ones weren't really drafts at all. Then, I had to assess my resources--my inner resources--to see which project I was capable of addressing.

I got there when it was still light--at 2 in the afternoon. I had to sit tucked away in back because there were no window seats, but that was okay--less traffic. When I left, it was dark, but I had a draft that was significantly closer to being finished(-ish) than when I arrived. I believe I will do the same tomorrow, and hope that it takes a little less time from arrival to sinking in. I have three fat piles of notes that aren't drafts yet, and I think I will try to get one of those into a draft(-ish).

Perhaps tomorrow, I will also grade. But I believe that before I grade, I will write.

Literary life.

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.