Winter rot

January 9, 2013 § 9 Comments

Easy to feel a bit of RS Thomas’s world-weariness as we drag ourselves back to work.  Sixteen tons and what’ve you got.  What I didn’t expect was unproductiveness in my writing.  I’ve found a way, usually, to keep on winding the bucket down and dragging up bits.  Changing the bucket (fiction – lyric – sequence), sifting the muck.  Lately, though, I’ve come up with next to nothing.  Three or four slightly unsatisfactory poems; a story; a page of something else.  This since, what, June?

Something looms large: as I hinted a couple of posts back, World War One is occupying my mind; and I’ve no way in as yet, worried as I am with the vastness of it and the need to make something adequate.  I have an idea – can see faces and names, anyway.  But it still resists.  And the problem is that only when I’m producing one thing can I produce all sorts of other things which in turn take the pressure off the central focus – or sometimes offer a side entrance, or trap door, even.

It makes me understand how I work, this: but it doesn’t help.  Writer’s block: what a bind.  Still, crocuses are coming up in our garden.


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