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I’ve been sending and receiving work to/from a friend, and last week I sent her everything that was left from what I had written since moving here. The end of August and the beginning of September were a tired time for me, and I wanted to give my friend everything so that I would have nothing to send. Yesterday I only managed a showing of a revised and expanded poem, but this morning I woke up and wrote for real, for real for real, and it has been really nice. My writing journal alerts me to the fact that I haven’t written anything in it in a month. Self, I forgive you.

If you want to read something else I wrote, here’s a piece for Coldfront’s Song of the Week series.

And here’s a poem I wish I’d made more of a fuss about when it went live in the Nashville Review. It was one of the first things I wrote last fall while the conscious feeling of my book was sprouting, and it sat for a long time in a very different form, and I came back to it at the end and reworked it and reworked it. It was very frustrating. And then one day I came back to it again and sort of let it lead me where it wanted to go all along.

Getting up early to write has been hard, less so the waking up than the actual writing. I need more runway time. But the cat has been noticeably less demonstrative in his affections since I started working full-time, hardly ever climbs into my lap and stays there. Early in the morning is the best time—he’s in my lap right now—so for that I’ll keep trying.

Photo on 8-5-14 at 7.14 AM

I wrote in my writing journal this morning:

I can’t speak to dreams-as-prediction, but I do think that dreams, coming from the unconscious mind, dredge up thoughts/anxieties/memories and represent those things both directly and indirectly. I think the tower of my dreams that had felt so safe and green was somehow my writing, and now it is my writing that’s out of reach. Even if my unconscious was trying to say something else, the act of dream interpretation reveals the unconscious. I know that’s the truth. I feel away from my writing, though I keep trying to approach it. Every approach is unstable: a rocking floating platform, a tiny raft that gives under my weight.

Then inexplicably I wrote a poem. The mouse in our kitchen made an appearance.

I’ve been trying to write a little journal-like thought at the top of the page in my writing journal, an appetizer for my brain for each day that I sit down to write. I just now realized I should have been blogging those. Here’s today:

 

Today is my birthday! 7 minutes to write. I spent most of my time this morning reading poems in lit journals, because I feel most like writing when I’ve been reading. I wasn’t super in love with anything I read today, though. A week ago I read a Sasha Fletcher poem in Big Lucks and that was the last thing I was gaga about. I have a few books coming to me in the mail, to review, but otherwise I think I’ve read almost every book I have already.

HA. It’s hilarious that I just said that. There’s no way that that’s true.

 

And then I wrote. So it seems useful. I’ve always needed a small push to get started, so it’s good to know that about myself and work with it, instead of against it.

I’ve been waking up at 6am every morning, either to go for a run and or to write. Somehow I never seem to actually sit down to write until about 40 minutes have passed. I’ve had this problem my whole life—time moves wrongly in the early morning, episodic, feeding the cat and making tea inexplicably separated by ten minutes while I just stood very still.

I’m still glad to set aside the time, but I’m not sure if I can sustain this schedule. Mornings are time-weird, lunch breaks I’m even more zombie-like, afternoons are spent sighing and prone, and my eyes start closing around 9:30pm.

In other news, I just loved this poem by Sasha Fletcher. I will be looking for this book.

A poem of mine is up in Sundog Lit’s new issue! It is very exciting because I like this poem, even though I wrote it several years ago and it got rejected a lot, and now it finally has a home. Also, it’s next to Shane McRae poems in the table of contents, which makes me flap my hands a little.

Tomorrow I’m going to spend some morning hours just sitting around and writing whatever. I’m embarrassed to say that it will be the first time in a while that I’ve done this. I keep falling asleep at 9:30, and spending my days at work, and spending my days off going to Ikea, but tomorrow! tomorrow is the day.