Things are things.

So I wrote a massive post about my cat's passing; it included a poem. I haven't put that much time and energy into a post or poem in a long while, I think.

I was really proud of that whole thing. It was an utter bitch to write & revise, naturally; I cried through most of it. But I might actually consider putting some more work into it and submitting it somewhere.

One of the things I feel I left out was the proximity of death and how that affected me. As it is, the post is mostly a memorial for her life & chronicling of her death. Frankly I'm okay with that as far as my own personal needs went/go, but I do think it might have some additional usefulness worth considering.

(It's kind of a special case; with the death of a person there's all the two-way-ness of your relationship, the similarity to your own mortality, and missing/wondering what they'd say or do. With a pet, though, it really comes down to you, your decisions (sometimes), and the absence the animal leaves behind.... So, it's death, but a little simplified.)


Anyway, I've also started doing The Artist's Way with Parker; I'm still kind of leery/scared, but I'm growing more excited.

I think it could, at the very least, give me that sense of satisfaction and fulfillment as a writer I've always longed for.


I've also been fiddling about with some other things, mostly poetic fragments and other loosely assorted ideas. Something may be brewing; I'm hopeful, at least :)

Do not bedevil me, Revision!

But, alas, it does. I tried to vlog about this the other day but couldn't upload it to youtube so I've mostly given up. At this rate I might as well write a bit about these troubles here if I haven't already.

While I don't mind editing other people's work--I rather enjoy it, in fact--my own efforts at revision overwhelm me.

I don't know how to edit myself, I guess. It scares me. I sit down and look at the draft and get sucked right back into the details and self-recriminating judgments. "This is all crap!", and such.

With other people, I don't have such trouble finding "the big picture" and helping shape the piece to suit it, but I can't seem to with my own efforts. Perhaps it's too personal, perhaps I'm too inexperienced, perhaps I suck at turning the same objective but curious eye on myself that I grant others.

Probably, too, I expect too much of the (rough) draft I'm working on. That is, I demand certain things--order, organization to name two--that simply aren't there yet, but since I'm "requiring" them in order to be able to edit, I struggle badly to edit.

Another problem is "fancying" things. I get distracted from sorting out that whole big picture/organization thing as I come upon lines or phrases or bits I like. I also seem to have a hard time "risking" getting rid of them even if it means sorting out the piece and making sense of it as a whole. Sentimental? Mebbe. >.<

I'm gonna try something different today. I've heard one method of organizing is to write a draft and then make an outline of it and then see how you'd like that outline to be different and make changes accordingly. (Sometimes I've heard that you make an outline first, too, and then compare them. Kinda same thing...)

The trouble with distilling an outline from this draft is that because of its disorder there aren't exactly points that could be extracted and formed into an outline.... So maybe I should, having done what I can to look over what I have perhaps, draw up an outline of what I'd like, and then use what I have to fill in those gaps? That kinda makes sense, right?

Oh well. Either way, whichever way, it's worth trying. It's at least something...versus putting it off again as I have all week. Yeah. This sounds better.

Tarnations?

I was about to work on the essay for that literary journal, when I got called in to work. By called in I mean they called, offered, and I accepted. (It was either this or risk working tonight, when I might miss the Doctor Who season premiere, but still....)

Maybe it's a good thing; I've been dancing around this all week. The whole revision process. Scares the crap outta me. Still, though, I was all set to make some progress...at least, that was the plan. Hrm.

Kind of ridonculous.

I've taken on a lot of writing responsibilities this last week or two. I've also been somewhat crappy about managing them, I guess. We'll see.


I've had some great new ideas for the essay for Madz's literary journal. It's moved from simply an apology to the editor to an indirect method piece on how to fail as a writer. Because somehow "failing as a writer" seems somehow impossible and paradoxical to my mind. You can struggle as a writer, you can give up as a writer (I guess), you can even "betray" your own principles with what you end up writing for, but "fail"?

As far as I can tell, writing is less a lifestyle--something to choose to do or fail at doing--as it is some inborn part of one's mind and personality. I want to be a writer because I can't help it. I want to string words together, either verbally or literally (literally), constantly.

As such, I suppose the article will go all double-indirect-method-y and actually explore what it means to be a writer....? by failing at it....? Hm. I'll needa think on that.


As you can tell that article may not be entirely ready for the journal. As such, I offered my editor, by way of something concrete, some old(er) poetry of mine. I went through and found what was good and typed up what I hadn't; I emailed her links to anything I'd blogged with notes on what changes, if any, I felt were necessary; and otherwise got myself all warm-feeling and hopeful regarding my prospects as a poet.

I mean, I'd basically given up on myself. I never seemed to write any poetry anymore, and what I remembered writing all seemed so mediocre and unfinished and pointless. Turns out it's not as hard as I'd thought to churn out something decent--that is, something that needs only a little reworking or continuing here and there to get going on its way to useability and maybe even goodness.

It's weird, too: In looking over the various drafts and fragments of things I've poeticized, I think I've found some weird kind of self esteem or respect or something. It occurred to me that I may actually have some gift-ness at stringing together compelling, interesting, pretty words and phrases. Can you tell I'm not good at breaking modesty?

Well, even the crappier fragments had occasional bits of worth, and that was also heartening. Like, "Hey, I might actually have something to offer, some kinda usefulness, some kinda recognizable style-ness. Imagine that.".


I've been pretty shit about the short story at the moment. I'm sure y'all can understand why. I've never gotten this far with pretty much any of my writing ever, so it isn't easy. I don't really know how it's supposed to be done--revising and shit. Like, I imagine it's not good to pack on as many writing obligations at once as I have. If only for clarity of mind. Oh well.

It's a learning experience.