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.