For this next writing session, we have to make a singular choice and stick with it every single day for three months– letters, poetry, or fiction– and I chose fiction, because it’s the hardest. Letters are a masquerade, anything can be done, and poetry is almost the same. If I were really really lazy one day I could write a poem like this
and I could say that I was channeling e.e. cummings, the literate equivalent of Jackson Pollock.
On other lazy days, I could write this poem:
Green m&m looked at the blue m&m
You’ll never be one of us.
So I chose the hardest one because I’m all for making one’s life as complicated and difficult as possible. Right?
Unfortunately I’d love to write more tacky poems but I’ve got a paper to write, and because I’m trying to learn how to sleep early (before 1 am), I’ve got to go, and while I’d love to write and read and drink coffee and lounge around in shorts and kiss all day, mundane world kicks in, and let me tell you, it demands for practicality to take precedence over preference.
Good night and let’s check in tomorrow.