The thought ran across my mind earlier today as I schlepped to make a poem work. Isn't Summer over? Almost over? Why is it so hard to write positive things about this time of year? Was it really all that bad? Granted it was fryin'-egg-on-the-sidewalk-hot for weeks and weeks, was Summer REALLY that bad? "It's what you make/made it", says the logical know-it-all in my head. Perhaps so. Maybe that's why I'm having such a hard time. There was so much to do, and I was obsessed with graduating, getting a job, and whatever other "fresh Hell" I could think of. Or, was it simply procrastination? Every single hour isn't consumed with a task. I have a huge chunk of time between job hunts and the like for writing and musing. Ah, but then again, I know good and well when inspiration hits that the lone writer should be either at a desk or with pad and pen in hand. Even when inspiration is not present, the project should be on my mind. I can't afford to procrastinate.
I can't say there's nothing to talk about. I've been experiencing Summer for the past 26.5 years of my life. Everything from severe weather to the most beautiful flowers in the world. There's always something to talk about. Much as I'd like to be some kind of poetry machine simply hard-churning poem after poem, I know in my heart it wouldn't be my best. Sometimes I do hard-churn what I feel is gold. Otherwise, I can easily go back to my deviantArt page and find a few er...nuggets I'd like to toss in the fire. This, babies, is what my professor meant when she quoted William Faulkner. The darlings must be killed from time to time. (Well he said "kill all your darlings", but Jeez I loves my chi'rrens. O_o)
I set the goal to finish by the end of Summer not to create hard-churned, rushed garbage, but rather as a way to challenge myself. Could I do it, am I able, is THIS what Veronica truly wants? I'm joining the ranks of people who get the stigma of "starving artist", willingly taking my bag of rice and legumes to my hole in the wall. Writing is in my blood. It's in my spirit. Just like composers see musical rainbows, I see literature being created on pure white paper. It's always typed or is moving across the air. Sometimes it pops up and fades in. It itches my brain at night and shoots from my fingers for hours and hours. So yes, this is what I want.
74 freakin' poems, man.