Now that I am embroiled in writing a work of literature, I begin see why my author friends often despair of some semblance of solitude within which to cogitate and to write.
As an "author," I am finding that the whole notion of autonomous time is pretty much a misnomer. Now, each new idea and paragraph becomes a cantilever, threatening to undermine the delicate balance of my layered, parallel and interwoven thoughts.
With poetry, interruptions are fairly manageable, as my poetic stints are generally short, sweet and intermittent. I can jot down quick little notes for later inclusion in a poem while I tend to other things.
And, I find that composing poems is more like playing with wisps of thought. I still need to weigh each word, sentence, and idea against the health of the whole, but it's tug on me is much less demanding.
Rather, I should say "tenacious," for when I'm in author mode, interruptions are instantly catastrophic, and promise to utterly destroy that next brilliant section that I was just about to pen!
Such, for me, is the difference between the poet brain and the author brain. So far, I've been able to continue in either mode, with a brief "Where was I," recap, provided that one has released me to the other.
Meanwhile, I have now taken my place in that great, wending queue, awaiting my turn to say, "I'll take that quaint, quiet cottage on the edge of the glad, if you please."
As an "author," I am finding that the whole notion of autonomous time is pretty much a misnomer. Now, each new idea and paragraph becomes a cantilever, threatening to undermine the delicate balance of my layered, parallel and interwoven thoughts.
With poetry, interruptions are fairly manageable, as my poetic stints are generally short, sweet and intermittent. I can jot down quick little notes for later inclusion in a poem while I tend to other things.
And, I find that composing poems is more like playing with wisps of thought. I still need to weigh each word, sentence, and idea against the health of the whole, but it's tug on me is much less demanding.
Rather, I should say "tenacious," for when I'm in author mode, interruptions are instantly catastrophic, and promise to utterly destroy that next brilliant section that I was just about to pen!
Such, for me, is the difference between the poet brain and the author brain. So far, I've been able to continue in either mode, with a brief "Where was I," recap, provided that one has released me to the other.
Meanwhile, I have now taken my place in that great, wending queue, awaiting my turn to say, "I'll take that quaint, quiet cottage on the edge of the glad, if you please."
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