Poet vs. Novelist
Or how not to make your word-count goal . . .
The rain’s been tapping on the roof all day, the sound steady as an author beginning a new book. If I want to, I can read the drops that fan out across the window in row after translucent row.
Instead I’m thinking about the little bottle on the sill, how its green glass holds so many beads of air caught in stillness.
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Lately I’ve been dipping my toe into fiction and am finding the writing process is very different — at least for me. I may have an entire plot ready to go, but it’s incredibly easy for me to get sidetracked by tiny, beautiful distractions. I have a particular weakness for old glass.
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