Who Knows Where the Time Goes?
Another Friday. February. Second month into 2006. I filled the morning with cutting and pasting drafts of writing I've been doing for the past year—memoir bits and pieces about G., poetry, prose poems—into a single document. Up to 50 pages, needing edits of course but at least this way I have them all in a single file, a place to start. And, another 20+ things I've written that aren't quite right as they are but have enough seeds in them to work with, revise them into something more polished and (hopefully) publishable. I think finding any common threads that may exist between these pieces and looking at them as a whole will give the work both structure and added momentum.
It is always a surprise to see how much I've been writing, how much I've written. Yeah, it's all over the map, and a bunch of it is raw and rough, a first pass to help me find my subject, sort my way through emotions as well as words. But getting it down, having a place to start in that isn't the empty-page beginning—as I've learned over the years of doing this, that isn't a bad strategy for me.
One day at a time. One text at a time. One book to focus on at a time.
