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Since November 2016, I felt as if I'd trudged through the muck and dregs of a long nightmare. I went from sobbing into my pillow to a white-hot urge to smash every dish in the house, in the span of minutes watching the news. To top it off, I couldn't write. I. Couldn't. Write. I'd sit facing a blank sheet of paper, terrified and frustrated. The page stayed empty. This went on for months. I was starving, and I didn't immediately know how to fix it.
I resorted to radical safety and nourishment. I attended poetry group each month, stopped watching the news, and read a shitload of books. I started a little garden, volunteered, sent letters to my government reps, watched the sun rise, and embraced saying,"I'm a writer", whenever someone asked what I do. I used 3x5 index cards to work through my anxiety, and practice concision. The Day After Brahma Opened One Eye was the first poem to emerge after that horrible blankness. The fever broke, apparently. I haven't hit that perfect stride yet, but it's going well.
I've decided to focus on a full-length collection this month. It'll be my umpteenth attempt, but who's counting. I even have a title: BLACK MAMBA, and a soundtrack on Spotify to put me in the mood (Black Mamba Soundtrack on Spotify). I don't usually work with music, but sometimes it helps shape themes and imagery (and so I can dance around the house in my T-Rex shirt and fuzzy blue slippers). I have a preliminary table of contents, and at first, I tried to stick to that order, but my brain just won't have it. I don't force order so much anymore. I'm content as long as I write.
I managed about 1,065 words today. A lot of that was revisiting drafts I'd already written. I like to edit as I go. Maybe like isn't exactly right, it's more that I'm compelled to revise as I go. But whatever. I'll take a thousand words to zero any damn day.
