The Moment

My writing last night was not exactly what I wanted it to be. So you must be thinking in astonishment, wow, and he expects it to always turn out right? The answer is of course no. But last nights writing may simply remain comatose in my journal. It may never see completion; or even the revival attempt of multiple rewrites. Sometimes I feel it is so far off that I walk away from it. Lose interest.

Surely I am not alone in this abandonment of work. Still, I was thinking this morning about a statement about Sylvia Plath’s poetry writing that is attributed to Ted Hughes in which he says he is not aware of Sylvia ever abandoning a poem. There are (and I’m paraphrasing here) times when she decided should could not make a table out of something and was perfectly happy settling for a chair but he never recalled her abandoning one.

I’ve had tables that have turned into chairs or foot stools, but still, sometimes I allow the bad to stand and walk away from it. This morning it is bothering me for some reason.

Maybe it’s because some of these are in my journal along with everything else. Perhaps if I tore the pages out I would feel better. Perhaps not. It’s just where I am at this moment and I’m taking ownership of this feeling, but not necessarily comforted by it.




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