You write so much,
\nwhy not write a book says the critic,
\nsomething significant,
\nweighty,
\nfull of pages.
\nThese little scraps you write,
\nthis fluff,
\nthese words like ragamuffin children
\nyou let loose,
\nare trifles,
\nfool scrap,
\nsomething anyone can do.<\/p>\n
I nod in agreement, in appeasement.
\nI have no magnus opus,
\ngreat canvas,
\na body of work.
\nOnly little orphans,
\nplaying with stones,
\npursuing rabbits,
\ncalling to each other behind trees,
\nephemeral ghosts,
\nmotes in the air,
\nthoughts balled up like string,
\nbut I keep trying.<\/p>\n
Focus on plots I say to myself.
\nFind the inward shape of things.
\nEat an apple,
\nbury the seeds,
\njoin the community of scribblers
\nand painters,
\ntin-eared banjo players,
\nintellectual paper weights,
\nand write songs without notes,
\npictures without paint.
\nAnd I tell my critic,
\nI will, I will,
\nas soon as I finish this note to myself.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
You write so much, why not write a book says the critic, something significant, weighty, full of pages. These little scraps you write, this fluff,…<\/p>\n