Over the weekend I was able to put a few words on the page that seemed to actually morph into something reasonably connected. I didn't sweat it... just plugged along.
Last night I ran out to the library to retrieve some books for my wife. Picked up something for myself as well, came home and read some pretty opinionated critical reviews of some of Robert Lowell's work. It was at this point I was thankful that my writing was not subjected to such clinical dissection in view of the world. For a moment anyway. Then of course I thought what the hell. When you reach the level that Lowell had achieved, you don't much care what some academic thinks thirty to forty years later.
Of course the reality is, I'm not a Robert Lowell. But putting down what I was reading, I again set in to write for a bit last night. First, just journaling. I was however able to begin a poetic response to another poet's work. Something I had been kicking around in my mind for a while but had not been able to synthesize. Well, alas, it was beginning to work. And I have a new level of excitement about what it is and the possibilities it presents once it is refined and rewritten (however many times it takes).
So this morning, I set here with the knowledge that I will one day, again in the future, hit that brick wall. But I am fresh with the feeling that one gets when they have just powered through one of those walls. These are the moments in writing that you live for.