I've been trying for some time - months, it seems - to write something. Not just the occasional, but something. I get a run on, then realise that ain't working, put it away, start somewhere else, have 'grand' ideas for 'projects', and, by jingoes, it just doesn't work, none of it.
It's nothing to do with 'writer's block' - by crikey, I'm writin' and the thumbnail dipped in tar is wearin' out.
It doesn't help that I've been reading these rather dispiriting posts, starting with Ron Silliman's reference to a US poet called Bill Knott who wants most poets of a 'certain age' to go and off themselves. Now, I don't know this bloke's work (tho' all the US comment-box responders seem to) and I wondered if he was bunging it on (hey, just saying what it seems to me, no assumptions - the cove could be making a serious suggestion - as I said, I don't know him from a bar of ... but wish him all the best with his work and life, nonetheless).
And I was also looking at this rather odd US phenomenon called Foetry. Geez, there's some seriously ticked-off people on their forums. True. I'd advise a once-only visit, if at all, notwithstanding that I recently heard some mildly disturbing things about processes relating to a poetry prize. No, that way madness lies.
And in the end (not that I'm quoting The Beatles), it's got me out of myself - or at least up and dressed and onto my third coffee - with the thought that ... what ... something will work, at some stage, eventually.
I'm also in a clean-up mood and am thinking of heaving out a whole lot of old stuff. All that yellowing paper with drafts that go nowhere are not a good look (I'm giving a recent heap the evil eye as I type). Cleaning up, I know, is avoidance behaviour but it does make your endorphins do a little dance for a moment. There's also a possible storm coming. I hope it rains.