I’ve spent hours and hours over the weekend working on my memoir. I’ve written pages and pages, but nothing, as of yet, crafted well enough to share—a whole lot of words that add up to a whole lot of nothing.
It feels a bit like this—part of a poem I wrote a while ago:there are no words with weight and density only a limp phrase which sags in the center like wet clay dampening the tips of fingers moistening the verbs the hinges are in place but there is only the low blank noise of sentences (alone)
Please be patient with me. I promise something more significant soon.