I've completed a poem a day for thirty-two days. I should feel proud, happy that I am able to call on that which I've always doubted I had, imagination, to write something concrete, real, new, every day for a month, but I am not, at least not entirely. Worryingly, I feel more negativity than positivity at the result, although there are positives to take.
- I never struggled for long for an idea
- I could work with limited time to produce something interesting
- Humour was evident, even if it was bleak...
The negatives mount up though.
- It's all too prosaic
- I can't recall any real insight or observations of depth
- I was very lazy - first drafts were often the only drafts, and I rarely read the poems out loud, instead trying to put down what was in my head regardless of quality or scansion
- When I did struggle for ideas, I was too quick to write about the challenges and shortcomings of my writing instead of investing time in thinking a little longer and in more depth
- Writing when severely hungover is pointless
Of course, in analysis of the exercise, I can reflect that I have at least identified areas of improvement for the future, and I could draft a manifesto for future work. However, I'm not at all sure that poetry is my millieu, or the one on which I should concentrate primarily, but the lessons stand true for anything else, especially the ones about professionalism and pride in the outcome of my work.
Lessons learned? We'll see.
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