July 2nd, 2013



Am going through a binder of photocopied poetry, left over from my senior year of college French/literature class, trying to decide what to keep and what to turn to scrap. I'm tempted to simply chuck it all, but that seems almost sacrilegious--even though most of it is free verse and nothing I'd buy a book full of.

It reminds me of being a student, of having every hour of my day mapped out (more or less) but still not being able to write a satisfactory essay in the time allotted (one five-page essay went through about seven drafts, the final one being written in the car on the way home for spring break/early morning once I'd arrived and was pushed under the professor's door by my work-study boss, who was a gem and a dear and took me out to movies and to lunch sometimes when things were slow). I still struggle with that, with getting things to sound right, to actually say what I mean (which required figuring out what I do mean--only now I don't have the structure of enforced (though often merciful) deadlines. I feel like I've gone mentally flabby (well, and a bit physically, too, with no more 2+ weekly fencing practices); I wrote a fair bit of fiction in school, mostly because it made a change from writing non-fiction. Somehow I need to get that muscle back.

Why am I telling you this? I don't know. It all sounded so lyric in my head, but seems to have turned to utter drivel now that I've pinned it to my computer screen.

Even that sentence right there--I lost it half-way through and had to make up the rest. Which is rather like what often happened in college, so perhaps things (I) haven't changed much after all.