It’s going to take longer for me to reach my number one goal. I can’t rush this revision, even if I wanted to. Yes, domestics ALWAYS come into play when it comes to writing, such as: My son’s flu, this week-long California rainstorm and subsequent leaks in our attic, the cats gakking incessantly on things I love (the hallway carpet, some of my printed out poems) and don’t love so much (bills, the latest New Yorker)—and yet, chaotic domestics are not responsible for my not making my latest self-imposed deadline.
(cue flashback music—ooo weeee ooo—)
There was a poem I wrote that was accepted by a (paying) journal I had been trying for ages to get published in. Before I sent the poem out, I instinctively knew it was a piece that had taken me to another level of my own writing world. When the poem was accepted by the journal, I felt as if I had punched a hole in sky and wriggled on through the awkward opening.
I feel similar with this current revision of Trouble. My critiquing is—refreshed? Wiser? I am happier with my edits and the notes I am taking as I pour over my work. I return to certain chapters and hopefully am enhancing pertinent goings-on. Deadlines are precious, but I can’t have one at the moment—or not one I can predict for this week. Possibly next—taking my laptop with me over Christmas—eager grandparents will monopolize the little man’s attention—I know where the nearest Starbucks is in H…One thing I know for sure: Trouble is coming.
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