Okay, time to talk about this . . . I have new work and I have been revising steadily over this break. I have been reading the work to Peter, who has always been my first reader, and I've been wondering, after each new poem, prose piece, essay-- is this it? Is this it ? Not sure if the cold has me foggy, or if I'm just not sure, and keep coming back to the work. Thinking "fresh eyes"-- what else? Often I think the obvious comes before the genius or truly evocative thought. Sometimes it's elusive and annoying, because I'm stuck and trying too hard.
Personally, I think my writing is closely related to the way I paint with watercolor, and I have to tell myself, light hand, light hand-- don't go too far. In watercolors, it's so easy to ruin the landscape.
I love winter. I love the snow and the way the air smells and how sound is carried in snow.
I've been writing some dark and not so dark work. I've been staring at a photograph of a King Penguin balancing an egg on his feet. Steve Fellner trigger this idea for an essay when we were yakking about March of the Penguins.
I did love the part in that film, when the females returned from sea and the males howled in delight, so glad you made it back. Is that what I'm waiting for? Who ever really makes it back?