In case anyone was wondering, I haven’t died or finally been committed to an asylum (though I expect both in due time.) Rather, I’ve been completely immersed in a wonderful manuscript project with a lovely client who happens to be an art historian. That has meant end notes, figures, captions, appendices, an index, and Chicago’s 16th Edition – an editor’s dream job!
For years I’ve told told everyone (myself included) that editing uses the same parts of the brain as writing, so when I’m working on an editing project I’m not able to write. I now realize that isn’t true. Although there’s a certain degree of overlap, editing uses a good deal more left-brain function than writing, which relies primarily on right-brain operations.
The upshot of this discovery is that I can no longer use work (editing) as an excuse not to work (writing). It’s surprising how liberating that feels.
Resolve
I woke this morning from sound sleep
and poetry – no words remained
in mind, only the clear knowledge
I had shaped verse as I went about
the business of the dream.
So today I wrote again
after too many weeks of letting life
and other work take up all
available space and time and energy –
but no more.
Well, the summer got away from me for a while, but I’ve caught up enough to be able to show my face again. I didn’t lose too much ground with reading, but the writing declined in quality as well and quantity. (I’m sure the two are related.)
For some reason, I completely forgot to post yesterday’s poem. The prompt was “synchronized.”
The poem inspired by today’s prompt (clock wise) is a rather flippant, but I think there’s something a little dark and sad beneath the surface.
Clearly I’ve been bitten by the silliness bug. The prompt for today’s poem was “glue stick.”
I went off-prompt today because something silly tickled my fancy instead.
The prompt for today’s poem was “an agreement.”
Today’s prompt was “text message,” and something popped out at me in some text I was reading this morning. Found poetry adapted from a passage in Chapter XXXVI of Adam Bede, by George Eliot.
The Daily Compost 