Frankenstein

When I write a story, I have scenes in mind, usually pretty short, and I write them, and wind up with a horribly unweildy first draft, because it's all disjointed scenes stitched together as they are. All the body parts are there, but they are not a whole yet. I call them Frankenstein drafts. I just finished one yesterday, and today I forgot how to do it. I needed a day or so before I went back to that piece, and I started working on something else, and I couldn't flow, because I was too bent out of shape trying to make things come out smoothly the first time.

always greener

Today's haiku was about November, which I only mention, because that month has always been a funny one for me. It is the bleakest time of year where I grew up, with fall officially fallen and winter waiting in the wings. The real transition isn't the leaves changing and falling, which is really all part and parcel of spring and summer and growing and being alive. The real transition is November. That's when Hades bursts out and drags Persephone down underground. It's the beginning of the season where growing and being alive are on vacation, down n the Caribbean somewhere, drinking rum and going snorkeling.
I think I wrote about November because I'm struggling a bit to keep the ball rolling. I'm afraid my creative energy is going into hibernation, and it's a grey and gloomy day out. So I write about November and imagine a long, cold winter without writing. It's a sucky thing to imagine, so I'm going to not have that happen.
If my math is right (and it's probably close), it's 78 days til November 1st. Today was day 47 of my highly controversial haiku self challenge. November 1st will be day 125 (again, I think I'm pretty close on the addition here) and that seems a good goal.
In November, I'll write some haiku about August, and think about being hot.
Day 47
bare trees, brittle grass
hard frost - warming your cold hands
under my sweater

struggling

Three days later, I am on a whole new schedule, starting writing in the evening, trying and trying to fight procrastination, but failing. There is a clarity of purpose I can't touch here. I seem to huddle here, always waiting for the next blow to fall.
This is not good. Something has to change.
The good news: finished chapter 2 of irresistible (though it may turn out that chapter 2 is chapter 2 and 3, I just haven't worked that all out yet) and begun a new draft of marguerite, that I hope to finish off in the next day or two.
A reasonable draft of the lake song. Lots of comments, the poets of literotica seem to have a lot of critiques, and I find myself violating my cardinal rules, and discussing with them. If the work needs discussion, it isn't ready to stand on its own. The only defense of the choices a writer makes in a piece should be the piece itself.

Some of it is differences of taste. Some of it is probably sensible. None of it is stupid, which is a pleasant surprise on the intrawebz.

More thought on that as time passes. Meanwhile, back to Marguerite.

The Lake Haiku

It's Tuesday ... I drove back Saturday. It's an all day project, getting from here to there or there to here. There, sleeping out in the open camp, close to lake and stone, grass and dirt, listening to loons and crows and distant motorboats, waves lapping against the shore and the docks creaking. Poetry seemed easy. Here, it seems harder. I look out the window and see a magnolia tree and the neighbor's house. I hear the whir of the AC and the traffic on the avenue.
Aaron would find poetry in these things.
I have not written a single decent poem since Friday.

seeking imagery
for love poetry in these
cold lakes and hard stones

That is the 17 syllable version. The tight version would be better.
The tight version always is. Maybe I should drop the syllable thing.

seeking love
poems in
cold lake, hard stone