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morning scrawl

Stalling, stalling, stalling. Why is the last part always the hardest? It shouldn't be. I know what's going to happen - I know where it's all supposed to go but for some reason after six weeks of fantastic freefall writing everything just stopped. Urgh. And now I find myself doing irritating things like prettifying the language, inserting words like 'vestiges' (please!) and writing pages long conversations about whether or not The Green Green Grass of Home is about astral projection. I can be a horribly florid writer. I fall in love with the sound of words - the string of words - I have alliteration issues for sure. John Steinbeck used to write a letter to his editor before starting each days work; Leah Kaminsky (one of the Glenfern writers) used to scrawl lists to empty her head of the daily house/mother/human stuff before sitting down to resume artistry! Consider this blog post my morning scrawl (except it's already the afternoon - oh dear!). I am reading The Journal of Joyce Carol Oates (1973-1982) It's enough to make me weep. She's so smart and dedicated. And it's never been about the money. Lots of good stuff:

"If the stories came out perfectly formed that would be one thing; one could merely type them out. But it isn't like that at all. I have only a few stray words, or an image or two, or a glimpse of someone's face. Nothing is clear, nothing is sequential or logical or explained. It's exactly like trying to reconstruct a jigsaw puzzle from the single piece you have in your hand."

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