Lost some words today as my body wept the wrong way. Inconsiderate of time and place, the betrayal of process greeted me with urgency. Oh, how I sigh and think of sad chronic situations that I have no solution for.
Or don’t I?
Strange that we are given a hundred life lessons. Some of us know discipline is the answer, a strange fleeting sensation that convictions cannot sway. No, my type is not one that yields to discipline nor does it respond to absolute resolution.
Sleep takes me and so much of my life is lost in it. The morning comes and words wait to be written, plots wait to thicken and characters cry out for a different, more final, resolution.
None of this happens, I will read and work and create. But will I write? Yes, I am being fair to myself. Poetry is a huge creation, and I can say I am a poet, how does such a claim differ from stating I am a writer? If i draw a sketch can I be considered an artist? Who blurs or draws the lines here, but I ? And why ever should I? The merits and difficulties of writing good poetry compete strongly and evenly with those of writing fiction.
Self indulgent, spinning, weeding. I love, I dream, and although I hesitate, and slumber, I am still resolute with the knowledge that someday I will create a fictional manuscript with its very own completed plot.

Here is to love, and to plots, my dear friends, to never being afraid to simply write our characters all the way through a carefully designed, soulfully completed, gut wrenching, captivating plot!