Two Things

1. Writing is always a game of tricking yourself into productivity via reverse psychology (luckily, my subconscious doesn’t ever get the joke); when I sit down and intend to write absolute nonsense, in a mockery of myself, that’s when I write the good stuff. When I sit down to write the world’s most innovative, surprising, heartfelt prose, that’s when I decide I need a walk, and another cup of pomegranate green tea.

2. I can’t decide if my novel is basically just an excuse to write a very long series of subtly connected (you can’t tell where one ends and the next begins) poems about humanity, or if my poetry is merely an excuse to condense something novel-like into individual, miniature (but fully-realised) units of chunky word-age. I’m sure this is both a poor reflection on my work and a reassuring one, and that this observation is both interesting and utterly not.

Carrying on, then…

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