I do not know what it would be like to work another way. I would have to be someone else.
What is a good writing day? How many hours? How much do you get? When do you make yourself stop? How do you know what the hell you're doing if it isn’t God who drives the muse whipping the horse the chariot rolls over the dead and you don’t give it a thought. Three poems that day. Maybe four. But when this poet writes poems, it doesn’t feel like work at all. It feels free. There is no cost for poems. But a collection of poems. There is a great cost for that.
I suppose it’s really simple. A matter of holding the thing in your head. My collection of essays is taking shape. It has a title. I am ordering the thing. I am scalping old essays, starting off with their empty skulls their shells maybe just their first lines. I did this yesterday. And today. And I’ve worked on the translations. And fretted.
My mood is a sort of repressed rage an anger at nothing much turned inward into teeth and knives in the head. But work turns it out and gets me going. I wish I could work and work and write until completely finished with collection. These prose pieces and bits bracken brine. I would like to finish loading the barrels of beer. I would like to print the thing off and begin to examine it. Of course the hardest thing is believing this is the last book I’ll ever write. After this everything will be covered. And done.
I wish I had read enough to know what one expects of such a book. Lyrics. Is there a risk of sameness? Should one vary the magnetic resonance?
Ugly thing. No bliss to follow at the moment.