SimPATico . . . it's just fun to say
This was a good writing AND reading week. It didn't begin that way, but I persevered. Persistence (i.e. bull-headness) = winning! (Shut up, Charlie Sheen.)
I've managed to "complete" (yes, I'm using the quotation marks again, deal with it) another poem for the third section of the manuscript, and I made some more headway with the second strophe of the fairy tale poem. I submitted my chapbook MS to one publisher and I have plans to complete another submission this afternoon. Also, I've now read almost half of the Blank Verse book by Shaw (which really isn't difficult, it's just that I wrote more than I read this week) and continued reading David Yezzi's excellent collection of formal poetry, Azores, on the treadmill. (Yes, on the treadmill. I am nothing if not a consummate multi-tasker . . . which, I agree, isn't really ideal for an art form that requires tranquility and peaceful moments of reflection, but when you're a working mother of two and trying to capitalize on very spare moment you have to yourself . . . well, you get the picture.)
I've just eased off of a five-hour writing jag, give or take a few minutes, and while it feels really good to have done that I'm a little tired and also, apparently, wired by the process. Some writers talk about how they "must" write -- like they'd die if they didn't -- but I'm not of that stock. I simply find the rush that comes with writing, and being incredibly, minutely involved with your writing, to the point where almost every one of your senses is attuned to the writing, and you don't really perceive anything else around you -- really gratifying, and to some extent, addictive. Admittedly, the rush experienced via writing is a smaller rush than say, a runner's high, or, from what I've heard, crack cocaine -- but it's a rush nonetheless, people.
Also, I'm a sucker for productivity. Chalk it up to the work ethic bestowed on me by my father, who came from good old Mid-West Methodist stock -- but I feel enormous satisfaction when I have something to show for my hours of writing. This is why I'll (most likely) never throw away a draft of a poem if I can help it, because there's a very tender and vulnerable part of me that needs to see, concretely, just how I spent my time during the day. The blog is ideal for this purpose -- it's very cathartic and I may keep it up long past the sabbatical -- although I'm not sure it's that helpful for readers, which is why I'm making a conscious effort to not only chronicle my work habits, but to talk about the problems or concerns that I run into along the way. Then, perhaps, this blog will be less like internet vomit, and a little more like a something writers want to read when they find themselves lacking . . . simpatico . . . in their own lives.
Is that the best word? Simpatico? I guess that's why I read other writers' blogs. Because it's reassuring to know there's someone out there who shares the same struggles.
(Also, I'm awfully nosy.)
I've managed to "complete" (yes, I'm using the quotation marks again, deal with it) another poem for the third section of the manuscript, and I made some more headway with the second strophe of the fairy tale poem. I submitted my chapbook MS to one publisher and I have plans to complete another submission this afternoon. Also, I've now read almost half of the Blank Verse book by Shaw (which really isn't difficult, it's just that I wrote more than I read this week) and continued reading David Yezzi's excellent collection of formal poetry, Azores, on the treadmill. (Yes, on the treadmill. I am nothing if not a consummate multi-tasker . . . which, I agree, isn't really ideal for an art form that requires tranquility and peaceful moments of reflection, but when you're a working mother of two and trying to capitalize on very spare moment you have to yourself . . . well, you get the picture.)
I've just eased off of a five-hour writing jag, give or take a few minutes, and while it feels really good to have done that I'm a little tired and also, apparently, wired by the process. Some writers talk about how they "must" write -- like they'd die if they didn't -- but I'm not of that stock. I simply find the rush that comes with writing, and being incredibly, minutely involved with your writing, to the point where almost every one of your senses is attuned to the writing, and you don't really perceive anything else around you -- really gratifying, and to some extent, addictive. Admittedly, the rush experienced via writing is a smaller rush than say, a runner's high, or, from what I've heard, crack cocaine -- but it's a rush nonetheless, people.
Also, I'm a sucker for productivity. Chalk it up to the work ethic bestowed on me by my father, who came from good old Mid-West Methodist stock -- but I feel enormous satisfaction when I have something to show for my hours of writing. This is why I'll (most likely) never throw away a draft of a poem if I can help it, because there's a very tender and vulnerable part of me that needs to see, concretely, just how I spent my time during the day. The blog is ideal for this purpose -- it's very cathartic and I may keep it up long past the sabbatical -- although I'm not sure it's that helpful for readers, which is why I'm making a conscious effort to not only chronicle my work habits, but to talk about the problems or concerns that I run into along the way. Then, perhaps, this blog will be less like internet vomit, and a little more like a something writers want to read when they find themselves lacking . . . simpatico . . . in their own lives.
Is that the best word? Simpatico? I guess that's why I read other writers' blogs. Because it's reassuring to know there's someone out there who shares the same struggles.
(Also, I'm awfully nosy.)
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