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Mired

I’d been doing a good job writing this summer, throwing out words in the usual outlets: the slow-growing pulp sci-fi novel, rare bursts of poetry, and the shamefully self-indulgent hobby (compulsive habit?) or peppering the internet with sarcastic, occasionally witty, sometimes bitter, and all-too-seldom pithy commentary of subjects ranging from gardening to politics to reviews to sports.  It’s a scattershot approach, but I’m hardly a professional: I find my voice when and where I can.

That ground to a halt around the time my family and I took a two-week vacation at the beginning of August.  I’m self-employed, so pulling that kind of escape, at this time of year, requires a flurry of long days getting ahead and catching up, before and after the actual vacation, respectively.  During that time, I got very little writing in.  Vacation was more of the same: activities, family time, sleep took up most of the hours.  And yes, sitting in a chair on the beach at a national seashore, reading a James Lee Burke novel, and getting up every hour or so to swim for ten minutes is an activity.  So is flying a kite.

Now I’m back, my schedule is clearing, and I’ve had a tremendous time motivating myself to sit down.  When I do make it to the desk, there is a lot of tap-tap-tapping the gel ink pen on the worn word surface, a lot of wool-gathering, and too much time checking my email.

The poetry isn’t going as I hoped.  I can deal with that.  I’ve never been a fast poet–if I dare call myself any sort of poet at all–it never comes fast, as prose often does, and unlike when I sit down to write prose, poetry isn’t the sort of thing I’ve been able to “push through.”

This brings me to a quandary regarding this blog.  I started it with a mind to focus solely on poetry, but it has sat here for several weeks while I’ve been away from the poetic well, so to speak.  While I’m not concerned with hits or followers, I’d like to have some–we all like validation, right?–but it seems that successful blogs tend to focus on one thing, rather than a willy-nilly blunderbuss assault.  And this isn’t poetry, yet I’m writing it.

Hmmmmm.  I’m given pause, but ultimately I think what I want to do is make a blog about all of my writing–a blog for which I’m compelled to sit down and write.  Yep, that’s what I’m going to do.  I guess I just needed to talk myself into it.  So, let it be resolved: in addition to poetry, I’m going to put any damned thing in here I choose.

By JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels, growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.

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