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Jun 7 03: gratitude

The Sensible Chicken has finally been written out from beginning to end. It’s all of seventeen lines long, but I consider even that to be a major triumph over the suffocating paralysis that had been. She had somehow morphed into The Horrifying Albatross over the last several months. On the day I left, I got a call from Peter-in-Oxford, who was actually in Durham for a conference. He dared me to just write the damn thing out as a sixteen-line poem if I couldn’t manage to get it out as a longer prose piece. And so on the plane out west, I did. Although, as I said, it’s actually seventeen lines. Still: having successfully demonstrated that yes, I can still write things (and fending off what Jonatha Brooke has called the ‘I Suck anti-muse’), I have been writing all the time. I actually want to write, out of the blue, again. This feels good. Praise be to the muses, sweet sisters all, and to their father, for their renewed companionship. Praise be to patient friends who believe in the writers they know even when they aren’t writing. Praise be to patient friends who kick us in the ass when we need it, on vectors inspiring and inspired.

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