The winter rye continues to grow, and I continue to do my (daily-ish) writing practice.
I now have many free writes. They make me think of this patch of green stalks not yet ready to mature. I worry that I’ve forgotten how to take the raw, rough, wild stuff and cultivate it into a poem. This is not a new anxiety. I can keep writing, until the day when that writing compels me to complete it, guide or follow it into a form to be shared. Or I can, in time, turn all that writing over, trust that it’s down in the good ground of my mind and will help the next ideas prosper.
In the meantime, there is much to read between now and my graduation from Rainier Writing Workshop in August. Much to read, and I revel in it.
(If this reading is a procrastination technique, it’s a good one!)
How about you? Do you ever feel lost in an overgrown patch and can’t see your way through to a poem?