peripathetic

Alan said he doesn't want to publish any of his poetry really, a whole load of which he just emailed to me for criticism. I'm glad he doesn't want to. He'd put people like me out of business. I'm not going to put any of it here because of copyright issues. But in a sort of loose, splashy way, some of it is amazing. Of course I scoured unrecognised poems for signs that he might have been writing about me. Or us, or something. But there weren't any of those.

I've been trying to write, creatively, that is. Since I got back, while I was away, and I can't, it won't come. It's like the relevant bits of my mind have been clogged with concrete. Someone's going to have to chip away at it before I can get going again, and I'm the last person to do that. I don't have eyes on stalks and I can't see into my own head too clearly sometimes! But poetic hiatus is a big problem. If I don't get out of it soon I may never be able to climb out and write like I did. Which is to say, as well as I did.

But when I haven't been trying to squeeze a little turd of artistic emotion out into the porcelain bowl of the world of other (?) crap (?) everyone else (?) also produces, I've been riffling through this, this, this and slavering over this. I really can't wait until it is released. Then again, since I'm starting work at Waterstone's this week, I'll probably be able to get hold of an advance copy... somehow. But Donna's people are so secretive.

Mine, however, are sneaky and resourceful.