I read a tumblr post by someone I’ve seen being great about trying to remember how to write poetry, about how any first scraps of a draft lead to disgust at the thought that they could even have been considered worth the ink that’s wasted on them, and I identified. I’ve been in a very similar place for months, with only deadlined poems getting done (napo and occasional ones) and even blogging being impossible. Well damn it, I thought, it’s Lent, let’s actively stop. Let’s move from not to do to to not do. It’s a little bit heartening that something within me rose up and resisted that thought, so I’m trying to let that wrestle the monkey mind down. Here’s a link, then, to Geof Huth and writing as a personal urge.
It’s later. It’s like when you break your arm and keep seeing casts, as here’s a tunnel from Shane Jones too. Wasn’t Light Boxes great?