There are days when I write, and some words intrude and “all” I’m good for is poetry. I can edit in this mode, but then, editing is analytical. It’s easy sauce. No, sometimes the words will strike, and I will go fae-mad, and the verse tumbles out with immaculate line breaks. None of these messy have-to-play-with-them breaks. Occasionally, they’ll enjamb, tangled arms and legs akimbo on the page and I start writing love poems. Or veiled sex poems. Or the dreaded poem about writing! How meta. It’s been done. But I’m not. Verse snakes into my everyday speech, and in the sun-spangled angles of mangrove roots fish dart, fleeing egrets’ spears. It’s like a filter gets removed and I hunt those words on long legs in the shallows, and their small silverness can’t hide. All of it is bright, bright, bright, even the shadows.
No, what’s frustrating about this is that my neglected novel sits in its metaphorical box under the bed, gathering dust, while I’m out cavorting with iambs and herons.