satyapriya (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
satyapriya) wrote2018-01-06 07:52 pm
satyapriya) wrote2018-01-06 07:52 pm
Entry tags:
Hot day, and completely cold on organisation
Yes, it's been a sun flare hot day. Horrid. I was in air-conditioned yoga this morning, so it wasn't too bad. Then have spent the rest of the day at home, in air con, reading ABSOLUTELY, a memoir by Joanna Lumley. It's okay. Celebrity memoir. Shrug.
So I can't whine about being limp from sweating all day.
Just now, I subbed my first poem of the year. It cost me, or rather PizzaBoy's PayPal $3.23, to a US market. A poem I wrote a few years ago in Bali, upon reading something about the strip mining in Nauru.
It was the most political poem I could find in a rush. My files are still in a gods-awful mess.
I know I need to put everything into a giant Writing folder, and then sub-folder the hell out things. But, while I think of it here, it feels like a giant black wave descending on me, all the work involved, and how a poem I'd catergorised in one sub-folder, I'd expect to find elsewhere next time I looked.
I simply don't know how to go about organising it. I feel sick at the thought of even chipping away at it. Black wave descending. Taking every darned poem, rereading it, considering carefully what the theme is, reworking it, as so so many of them need, and then slotting into the definitive folder. Then doing it all over again with short stories, articles, and working out which of my many novel drafts is the latest and complete, and thus the one to keep. Black wave.
No it doesn't matter if it takes me two years to do it. I made a wee start last year. Black wave. Feelings of panic, of wanting to delete everything.
New year, new start, and...black wave, panic, feelings of drowning.
Then the massive effort of tracing back what's been published. Easier with printed stuff. The evidence is on my bookshelves in the form of literary and genre journals, magazines, newspapers. e-pubbed stuff - ugh.
So, I simply close down the computer again and skulk away to bury myself in a book, and pretend that the Black Lagoon isn't festering in my Word files.
No one I know would volunteer to sit with me, and slowly go through things with me, holding my hand in 30 minute increments, sometimes discussing where a poem or story should sit. People have lives, Satya, and you're supposed to be wearing Grown Woman Panties.
But I'm not.... Not in my head. There's a screaming flighty child who's scared of everything.
So I can't whine about being limp from sweating all day.
Just now, I subbed my first poem of the year. It cost me, or rather PizzaBoy's PayPal $3.23, to a US market. A poem I wrote a few years ago in Bali, upon reading something about the strip mining in Nauru.
It was the most political poem I could find in a rush. My files are still in a gods-awful mess.
I know I need to put everything into a giant Writing folder, and then sub-folder the hell out things. But, while I think of it here, it feels like a giant black wave descending on me, all the work involved, and how a poem I'd catergorised in one sub-folder, I'd expect to find elsewhere next time I looked.
I simply don't know how to go about organising it. I feel sick at the thought of even chipping away at it. Black wave descending. Taking every darned poem, rereading it, considering carefully what the theme is, reworking it, as so so many of them need, and then slotting into the definitive folder. Then doing it all over again with short stories, articles, and working out which of my many novel drafts is the latest and complete, and thus the one to keep. Black wave.
No it doesn't matter if it takes me two years to do it. I made a wee start last year. Black wave. Feelings of panic, of wanting to delete everything.
New year, new start, and...black wave, panic, feelings of drowning.
Then the massive effort of tracing back what's been published. Easier with printed stuff. The evidence is on my bookshelves in the form of literary and genre journals, magazines, newspapers. e-pubbed stuff - ugh.
So, I simply close down the computer again and skulk away to bury myself in a book, and pretend that the Black Lagoon isn't festering in my Word files.
No one I know would volunteer to sit with me, and slowly go through things with me, holding my hand in 30 minute increments, sometimes discussing where a poem or story should sit. People have lives, Satya, and you're supposed to be wearing Grown Woman Panties.
But I'm not.... Not in my head. There's a screaming flighty child who's scared of everything.