As expressed through some pouty blog bitching… I’ve been struggling with editing the anthology. Usually the roles of Writer, Editor, and Publisher involve different people – unless you’re a disgruntle Writer like me determined to overthrow a system that doesn’t toss out free favors.
Shout out to all the other Indys doing their thing!!
I finally printed off a hard copy of my book yesterday because the only thing I dislike more than editing is staring at a computer monitor and editing. Shortly after I began reading, I realized that a lot of pieces I had initially penned as micro-fiction are really poems in disguise.
Sitting in my backyard on a lovely afternoon filled with gusts of autumn breeze and distant smoky scents… I diced down half a dozen micro pieces into new poems.
And it was really fun!
It’s actually the most fun I’ve had in a very long time… ink spilt freely and quickly over handmade paper revealing fresh new work that twisted up my guts and had me nodding and shaking my head.
That’s when it dawned on me… hold on, I’m actually editing… like for real editing… not just reading and re-reading or staring blankly at a screen… FINALLY!!
I’m on my way back to the yard to sit in the sunshine and work through another stack of pages. Here’s one that was born yesterday…
invisible word fluid (spilling on my pages)
I know you’ll never
read this. Make me love you
more. I ran for ink today.
Desperate to filter fumbling.
Chattering teeth. Tapping feet.
You don’t speak Italian.
You don’t fancy opera.
Pavarotti rescued me. Like someone understood.
Squinting. Shut. Behind over-sized shades.
I sniffed unspoken secrets.
The city never stops.
Fumes infuse gasping lungs yet everything seems so clear.
Sweating out subverted panic. Tamed by tenors.
An accordion accosted my frenzied state. I searched
for you. Tugging my hair. Biting my lip.
Honest. Direction. Stuttering my steps.
Slower. Stretching. This
A blank sheet of paper.
… I am officially getting excited about the book fellow cult members.