It’s been a bad week. I do not want to write this blog post. I did not want to write seven rubbish poems. I did not wish to do anything. But here we are, a pots must be written because I’ve said so and the bit of me that says so is more bossy than the bit of me that has had a bad week.
One of the reasons I don’t wish to write this week is because I don’t know how to do so without sounding either passive aggressive or moany or both. So I won’t write about all the rubbish stuff, it won’t change anything anyway. Instead I will mention the game my daughter wanted to play last night. It was the end of the day. I did not want to play a game. I felt sad and I wanted to sleep. But she won’t sleep in a grump so I snuggled in and said OK. This is what she wanted to play:
Let’s say all the things we love.
I can’t remember all of her loved things but they included snowy days, her special blanket, mummy’s face, ice cream, autumn when the leaves twirl down, reading books and making pictures. Four year olds are wise creatures, it was the perfect end to a terrible day.
So numbers this week: the poems were written. I can’t even call them dreadful drafts, they were abysmal. I have not had a decent writing session all week. Usually at the end of the week I have at least one draft that I think might be worthwhile, not this week. All dross. However it is the end of January and I have a grand total of 36 first drafts from this month. I am hoping my theory of poetic statistics is correct in that at least one of those has to be half decent, time will tell. My editing session fell foul too, I have found a flaw in my wait three months to work on a poem plan. After three months I pretty much hate them all. The newer ones I still fancy a bit, the three months on ones are all farting in bed and leaving dirty underwear around the house. I don’t want to be with them anymore. This week I relented and let a couple of poems from this month skip ahead in class and be part of the current editing batch. I also skipped ahead with my sonnet. I knew that most of the sonnets were written about a young man, what I did not know is that the first seventeen are dedicated to telling the man to procreate so that he can pass his beauty on. I couldn’t stand to learn yet another please shag and don’t waste your beauty sonnet so I skipped on to sonnet 21 instead. Still no easier to learn, my brain is clearly well and truly befuddled.
No submission news, I plan to do a few next week, and I entered one competition. Other things I have learned this week:
1. People are often rubbish,
2. That includes me
3. Somehow people still make beautiful things
4. I want to make beautiful things
5. Most children’s animations will contain Brian Blessed at some stage.
6. Often I feel just as afraid and alone as I did when I was fifteen. I am starting to think this is normal (for me at least).
7. There is no point in adulthood where you house suddenly looks like it came out of John Lewis. This kind of magic does not exist.
That’s me, over and out.