The little thing at the top of the page says, "poem a week at least," and that was my intention anyway, but I've managed to be disciplined enough to write nearly every day and post almost as frequently. Mostly rough drafts, and then edits, keeping the first draft in the comment section to track my progress.
My manuscript is in a form where I'm finally just editing it, deciding which of my "darlings" to kill, as a friend once put it. I think about Sylvia Plath and the revolving collection she carried around for years, her albatross, finally published as Collosus after countless additions and subtractions and dozens of names.
I'm trying to decide what to do with myself. Amidst a flood of conflicting information about what it means to be a writer these days, with print in its death throes, and MFA programs spitting out graduates and who go on to create yet more MFA programs...
I'm ambivalent about so much, but I want this venue to be my workshop, and that's the request:
comment. follow. criticize. be brutal. scathe me.
I can take it, and learn and edit, and grow.
Maybe there's room for at least one writer to make it outside the program. I refuse to be a hobbyist.
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