I resisted as long as possible, but isn’t this the prettiest blog? It will cheer me up during the heat-blanched dayjobless August noons as I finally toss a few manuscripts in the mail then take another mini vacation from creativity before the final summer push to free myself from autobiographer’s hell. [Poe could write another short story about running away from one’s self here.]
in Verse Wisconsin, based on the writing prompt: Work.
Whew! I’ve finally finished a typed draft of my entire five-book collection, having edited, finally rewritten the ending of, and retyped the novella. After a week of refusing to do anything creative, I’m editing the memoir yet again. Funny, I’m primarily a poet, yet the three books of poetry are not giving me any trouble this summer. Shouldn’t my “passion” be driving me crazy?
I don’t know how fiction writers can stand all that typing, typing, typing, knowing full well they might get to the end and go Phooey! then rewrite or toss half the darn book. That’s dedication!